


Bloodstruck (or tranSYLVAINia)

by flowerboy_11



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Rating is subject to change, vampire!sylvain catches himself a blood donor THE FIC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26977138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerboy_11/pseuds/flowerboy_11
Summary: An intruder walks down the main hall of the stronghold, head turning slightly this way and that to take in all the grandeur the place must once have possessed.Sylvain follows the intruder. His prowl is silent and concealed, his heavy boots not making a sound despite their metal spikes. His pale skin and gleaming eyes blend in with the shadows to an absolute despite the paradox.This will be considerable fun.Or: In a world in which the Church hunts down rogue immortals, one doesn't want to be a sexy, strong vampire of 800 odd years, right?
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 73
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of finishing anything, here's another WIP that's wormed around my brain for at least four months now. Updates might be sparse. I hope you have as much fun reading as I do writing!
> 
> Please note that this will contain some content not everyone may feel comfortable with, including:  
> \- light gore  
> \- manipulative tendencies  
> \- a huge age gap between Sylvain and Felix (I'm using their post-time skip designs, and I picture Felix to be in his mid-twenties at the very least).

_**Part 1: Into the Unknown** _

* * *

An intruder walks down the main hall of the stronghold, head turning slightly this way and that to take in all the grandeur the place must once have possessed. Now the banners have bleached and rotted. The walls haven’t caved in yet, but their state of disrepair means it’s only a matter of time. The windows shattered centuries ago, the stained glass buried in the grime inside and in the soil outside. Dust, gravel, spiderwebs, droppings of mice and birds, they all litter the floors and walls and ceilings in the places the intruder does not step and crush them beneath his heels. It smells the way it looks: awful, a tingle spreading through your chest, your heart pumping faster.

Sylvain follows the intruder, making sure to keep two arm’s lengths between his chest and the stranger’s back. His prowl is silent and concealed, his heavy boots not making a sound despite their metal spikes. His pale skin and gleaming eyes blend in with the shadows to an absolute despite the paradox.

After months of feeding on nothing but birds and the odd deer, Sylvain thinks this intruder a welcome visitor. Even without his abilities, he’d be able to overwhelm the other man—it’s a man, Sylvain can smell it on his sweat—with ease for he is somewhat small and lithe. This will be considerable fun.

The other man rounds the corner at the end of the hallway, Sylvain trailing after him. The moonlight doesn’t reach this part of the stronghold with the windows looking out to the North, and the entire hallway is shrouded in profound darkness. The intruder unclasps an oil lamp hanging from a loop in his belt. He strikes a light with the help of a tinder box that vanishes back in the place he pulled it out from his coat. Holding the lamp up to illuminate his surroundings, the man moves closer to the last shreds of a tapestry moths and other vermin have eaten away at.

Crossing his arms, Sylvain steps into the small circle of light the lamp offers and leans against the inner wall of the stronghold. “Makes you wonder what it looked like before this place wasted away, huh.”

The intruder whirls around, lamp swinging on its hook, dark ponytail whipping around. His eyes are wide with shock, his heart racing and his blood sloshing through his arteries to darken his face. Ah, Sylvain’s favorite song. “Who are you?” the stranger asks, eyes narrowing. His free hand travels to his boot where the hilt of a poniard peeks out. There’s a crossbow strapped to his back, too, but Sylvain has yet to deduce where the stranger keeps the bolts.

“I could ask you the same thing. Don’t you think it awfully impolite to barge into someone else’s home uninvited?”

The poniard is free now, its point directed at Sylvain’s chest. The polished metal of the blade reflects the oil lamp’s light and throws it at the remaining strips of tapestry. “Answer me!”

Sylvain detaches himself from the wall, standing up straight and pulling himself up to his full height. He nods at the poniard, a smile pulling his lips from his teeth. “You think you can tickle me with that?”

“You say this is your home?” The intruder rakes up his chin. If he thinks this makes him appear either taller or more intimidating, he thinks wrong.

“Cozy, innit?”

Without preamble, the man charges at Sylvain. Seeing as Sylvain is clad in his favorite suit of armor for this special occasion, the stranger has to go for his unprotected neck cushioned only in a woolen garment. Sylvain uncrosses his arms, pulling his head up and away at the last possible moment to avoid the poniard’s edge. He ducks under the intruder’s arm when he lunges the tip at him, displaying a swiftness the stranger did not anticipate.

The poniard comes around in an arc. Sylvain blocks it with a metal-plated arm before he crouches low to sweep a leg against the other man’s from behind. The intruder is knocked down, falling on his ass. The lamp sparks from the spattering oil.

“Hah!” Sylvain points.

The man is back on his feet in no time, brandishing his poniard at Sylvain as if the thing’s done him any good so far. “Leave me alone, beast.”

Sylvain arches an eyebrow. So he figured him out. Good for him. “Nah, I don’t think so, little human.” Sylvain puts on his sweetest smile. “I’m hungry.”

The man’s grip on his poniard tightens. “Don’t call me that! I have a name, beast!”

“So do I, and yet you keep calling me a beast.” Sylvain takes a step towards the man. “What would you like to be called instead?”

“Felix.”

“That I can do, little Felix.” Smirking, Sylvain bows low with one arm crossed below his chest, the way it was drilled into him when he was still a human child. The double-fisted blow to the back of his head comes unexpected. He goes down hard and gets a kick to his face as reward, enough force behind it that it would have knocked a few teeth loose if he’d been human. Face buried in the remains littering the floor, this is beyond humiliating. Sylvain pushes himself up on his gloved hands and bares his fangs. “That hurt.”

“Good. It was supposed to.”

Back on his feet, Sylvain stretches his back and neck, clearing the cake of things he’d rather not think about from his face. “I don’t think you’re here on a personal vendetta. So what are you doing here? Just passing through?”

Something flashes behind Felix’s eyes. “Yes.”

Sylvain tilts his head. He can’t tell if Felix is lying just from that one little word. But he can’t be here for him if he hasn’t been aware of his existence until a few minutes ago. “Why did you attack?”

Felix twirls the poniard with practiced ease but keeps it trained on Sylvain. “I’m not planning on dying.”

“But planning to fight with a fancy dagger, a crossbow lacking bolts, and your bare hands and feet?”

Felix’s face flushes. At the sight Sylvain licks his lips. “I had a rough time making it here.”

“If it’s not me you want, then why did you seek out my humble abode?” Sylvain spreads his arms. “There’s nothing here anyone would be interested in.”

“I told you: I’m passing through.”

“Sought a place to spend the night?”

“Yes.”

A smile spreads over Sylvain’s features. “Why not try the village two hours’ walk from here? They must have a nice tavern with even nicer maids.”

Felix averts his face. “I didn’t know about it. And I have no money anymore.”

“You don’t look poor with that poniard of yours.” Sylvain looks at the tip still pointed at him. He reaches out to take it from Felix who proves to be agile, head whirring around. Sylvain pulls his arm back.

“I was robbed by bandits.” Felix gnashes his teeth, his face flushing once more. What a sight. What a promise.

Sylvain places a hand on his chin, remembering too late that his glove is still coated in that gunk. “Bandits? How many?” He deems it safe to turn his head and watch the night outside the broken windows. Stars sparkle in the sky.

“Four.”

“How far?”

“About three hours’ travel to the West.” This adds up. He wouldn’t have passed the village before finding the old Gautier stronghold. The poniard is again outstretched in Felix’s sure grip. “Why are you asking?”

“I just really hate bandits.” Sylvain steps into Felix’s guard, fast, close enough to whisper into his ear. “Today’s your lucky day.” He melts into the shadows before Felix has a chance to do more than stab at thin air.

* * *

Sylvain’s return is neither as swift nor as graceful as his departure was. Four fully grown men in one night is a lot to drink in, and the experience leaves him feeling bloated and ready to pass out. The first licks of sunshine flood in from the horizon just as he enters the safety of the stronghold.

Inside, he follows his nose to find Felix in a space cleared from rubble and remains. He’s leaning with his back against the wall, fast asleep. Sylvain tosses his sword safely tugged into its scabbard to Felix, the thing sliding across the floor and taking a good deal of grime with it. The bandits also had a small bag on them, containing a purse with coin, stale bread and staler cheese, and a change of clothes that smelled suspiciously close to Felix. This bag Sylvain dumps at Felix’s feet.

The sun prickles the skin on the exposed nape of Sylvain’s neck as he flees down the hallways, diving into the shades whenever possible. Only when he’s safely locked inside his personal quarters, skin too hot to the touch, itchy and painful, does he relax.


	2. Chapter 2

The last thing—or person, really—Sylvain expects to encounter when he finally leaves his chambers after days of much-needed sleep and uncountable time spent in his tub scrubbing himself down, is Felix. His scent is all over the place, not masking the dust in the slightest but still _there_ , as though he never left in all this time.

Or, no, that phrasing isn’t quite accurate. Sylvain was able to feel Felix’s presence during his self-imposed quarantine. He just couldn’t bring himself to care why the man would be on the prowl in this forgotten piece of history. Now he does.

Melting into the shadows and assuming his soundless gait, Sylvain tours around the stronghold. The long hallways on ground level are arguably in the worst state of disrepair with their layers of dirt and dust. Broken brickwork has fallen to either side of the walls, the ones outside covered by so many plants that they’ve effectively become part of the ground. Of the tapestries that once hung, only those in the North wing still exist, albeit in a manner better befitting them of tying bodices or hair up than actually showing elaborate scenes woven intricately into the designs. Nothing remains. Time takes everything.

Except for Sylvain.

He climbs the first flight of stairs he passes. Most of the steps are still intact, but decades of abandonment and a leaky roof have chipped away at the stone steps as well. Keeping close to the wall just in case, Sylvain avoids all the loose stones he remembers and is content to find no new ones move and slip under his feet since the last time he ascended here.

The first floor looks somewhat better, even if the rain hits harder through the holes in the walls that used to house windows. It washes the place clean. And there are still sconces mounted on the walls here! Most of the treasure Sylvain deemed unnecessary has been taken away, although it had served its purpose to provide him with several hundred meals. But you can’t suck them all dry and not leave anyone to return with some tell of the glorious amounts of bling still waiting to be picked up. Everyone will eventually forget about the danger looming if you space out the treasure to be had, a little something every few decades.

Well, it didn’t quite work out that well. Sylvain’s sense of time has been messed up for centuries now, and humans will be attracted to gold and gemstones like flies to rotting food. They came in droves some, what? Three hundred years ago? Four hundred? Sylvain shrugs to himself. It’s not like it matters. It’s been a while, centuries, and they plundered his stronghold faster than he could hunt them down for their transgression gone too far. There’s no reason to keep this place, and Sylvain would’ve moved somewhere safer forever ago, had he not realized that humans are attracted to ruins as well. Not like flies to rot, but perhaps like flies flying inside a room on accident. Trapped.

Sylvain grins and licks his lips. This is a nice analogy.

Yet he’s not hungry right now. He could make a feast of Felix and sleep for another few days, but where’s the fun in that?

He’s on the third—and last—floor. There used to be a wooden ladder here, long gone now. It led up to an attic crawlspace under the mason roof. Now a hole to said crawlspace is greeting Sylvain when he passes. He wriggles his fingers at it in greeting.

Around the corner, he finds Felix holding a burning torch to a wall and studying it, his free hand tracing the stone work. His sword is in the scabbard strapped to his back, the grip and pommel peaking out over his shoulder. He carries bolts for his crossbow now, so he must have stocked up somewhere. Why?

Sylvain steps out of the shadows and clears his throat.

Felix whirls around, his free hand flying to his sword’s grip and pulling it out by the width of a hand. Narrowing his eyes, he says, “What do you want now?”

Sylvain holds out his free, gloved hands and shrugs. “Nothing! Just wondering if you enjoy your stay.”

“I don’t.” Felix doesn’t relax his grip. The metal of his blade glints in the light of his lamp.

“Then I’m wondering why you’re still here.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“This is _my_ humble abode. Which means you’re a little trespasser, Felix.”

Felix snarls, his upper lip pulled up to reveal his teeth. Cute. Sylvain smiles. “This place stinks and is hideously dirty. It’s falling to pieces in places.”

“An acute observation.”

“If you’re proud of this, your self-esteem must be buried deep. Someplace popular so people step on it all the time.”

Still, Sylvain keeps smiling. “You can let go of your sword. I won’t try anything.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Why would I recover your things for you and let you rest if I didn’t want you to regain your strength and then run me clean through?”

An angry blush reddens Felix’s cheeks. Sylvain licks his lips. This man is easier to play than his giggling kid cousin in chess. “Because you’re looking for the thrill of a real fight?” Felix rolls his eyes and looks away. He slides his sword back into place and turns again to the wall he was examining. “Sothis fuck me sideways if I know.”

“Hm, that would explain why I dumped your stuff at your feet and not kill you in your sleep, like I had the chance to.” Sylvain rubs his chin.

“Does this mean I was right?” Felix’s hand leaves his weapons alone. Which means he’s at least not a complete dimwit.

“No. I didn’t even jump at your insults.”

Felix’s shoulders relax. His gloved fingers press into the cement between the bricks. “How could you tell what belonged to me?”

“It carries your smell.” Felix wrinkles his nose at the remark. “I didn’t know if you’d still be here when I got back.”

“Yet you brought my things.”

Sylvain grins. “You should’ve run when you had the chance. Your sword would’ve made nice treasure.”

Felix tilts his heads towards Sylvain, the firelight glinting in his eyes. He grins back, not in good humor but as a challenge. “I bet you don’t even know which way to point a blade.”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “We can spar if you want to find out.”

“Not now. Maybe later.” Felix turns back to the wall. Sylvain doesn’t see how it proves to be more captivating than he is.

Clasping the back of his neck, Sylvain says, “Look, I want to thank you for the tip. I fed like a glutton and then passed out.”

Felix snorts. “I didn’t expect a beast like you to have a code of honor.”

“I’m not a beast.”

“Then answer my first question: Who are you?”

Sylvain tilts his head to the side. “The last Margrave Gautier.” He opens his arms wide. “This is the Gautier stronghold, built to protect Faerghus’s northeastern border. Mainly from bandits from Sreng.” Something glints in Felix’s eyes at the words. He keeps pretending to be preoccupied by the wall nonetheless. “But no one seems to remember its purpose anymore, much less my name.”

“Do you?”

“Sylvain. Sylvain José Gautier.”

“I’m…” Felix licks his lips. “I wanted to thank you, too.” He finally turns towards Sylvain. Felix’s eyes seek something in his. “You’re not half-bad.”

A huge grin splits Sylvain’s lips. He knows he doesn’t look his best with his serrated teeth and fangs protruding like this, but Felix accepts the sight, not batting an eye, not flinching, not breaking out in sweat. “I won’t have to feed for about two more weeks. If you don’t have a death wish, make sure you’re gone by then.”

A muscle pulls at the corner of Felix’s mouth. A grin slowly spreads over his features. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“I know. You don’t reek of fear.”

“What else can you do?” Felix turns back to the alluring wall. “Apart from picking up scent like a bloodhound.”

Sylvain grins smugly now. He soundlessly steps up to Felix. “You forgot already?” he whispers in his left ear, then swivels around to his right side for Felix to hurl curses at thin air.

He jabs to his right with an elbow, hitting Sylvain in the low end of his plackart. Here goes to hoping he hurt himself because Sylvain doesn’t feel a thing. Felix doesn’t betray any emotion sans irritation, however. His head snaps around and he says, “And walking like a cat.”

“I can do a great many things.” Sylvain winks. “And telling you would kill all the fun in it.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“For starters.” Sylvain smiles. “Now, pray tell me what you’re trying to find?” With his gauntleted knuckles, Sylvain knocks against the bricks Felix examined. “There’s no false wall here.”

“I’m not looking for anything.”

“Uh-huh. You’re a lousy liar, little Felix.”

“Stop calling me that!”

Sylvain steps out of the range of Felix’s sword in the event he does decide to draw it on him. “You told me you wanted to be called ‘Felix’.”

“I never said I wanted to be called ‘ _little_ Felix’.” The angry blush that’s back on Felix’s cheeks is worth irritating him for.

“What can I say?” Sylvain holds up both his hands. “You’re of minuscule stature.”

Felix finally leaves the wall alone to turn towards Sylvain and draw his sword. “I’m going to behead you.”

“I’m unarmed!”

“I don’t give a flying fuck.” Felix takes a step towards Sylvain, his sword pointed at his chest.

Sylvain could summon his Lance. Or he could vanish into the shadows and leave Felix guessing. The latter option is what he deems to be an appropriate way to deal with Felix. Keep him up all night, always vigilant. Perhaps he’ll return to whatever hole he crawled out of, for good.


	3. Chapter 3

Cethleann apparently still hates Sylvain’s guts with a violent passion, because he’s out of luck. He could sense Felix walking and stalking his poor abode all night long, and then all day even when Sylvain was asleep, and now that he’s out again, he does the one sensible thing: crawl up the wall and join Felix on the top floor again. This time, Felix is trying to sneak into the attic crawlspace, without any success seeing as he is of minuscule stature and can’t reach this far up. He’s built a makeshift staircase out of fallen brickwork—at least he’s strong for his height—but he still can’t reach inside. And even if he could, he’d have to leave his lamp behind.

“I could give you a lift,” Sylvain says after observing Felix’s struggles for the better part of an hour.

Felix freezes up. He draws his sword in a heartbeat and points it in the direction Sylvain’s voice came from. “Macuil’s fucking balls, will you stop doing that?” Felix’s eyes narrow when they focus on Sylvain stepping into the light his lamp casts.

“Offering help? Never. I’m a true gentleman.” Sylvain grins and winks at Felix. “The kind that apparently went extinct a few generations down the road.”

“You must have holed yourself up for quite some time.” Felix slides his sword back into its scabbard. “Nobility in Faerghus is dead.”

Sylvain shrugs. “No wonder they stopped caring about what happened to this place.”

“‘They’?”

“The Church.”

“They know about you?”

Sylvain grins. “So they’re still around. Seiros and her cute little lizard folk.”

Felix’s eyebrows twitch in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Does it matter?” Sylvain shrugs again. “C’mon, I said I’d help you up.” He walks up to the crawlspace, passing Felix. His makeshift stairs hold Sylvain’s weight, even with the better part of his suit of armor on—better be safe than sorry in little Felix’s presence. Sylvain feels Felix’s eyes on his back as he gauges the remaining distance and bends his knees, then jumps up into the space. He doesn’t even hit his head! Laughing, Sylvain pulls himself up and turns around crawling. A small colony of bats takes wing, screeching at him. Sylvain sticks out his tongue at them, watching them flee through the hole through which he crawled up into the attic. The poor sods should go feed already. Poking his head and an arm out of the hole, Sylvain says, “I’ll pull you up. Bring your lamp. It’s dark in here.”

Felix picks up his lamp. He shines it in Sylvain’s face, causing Sylvain to shield his eyes with his free arm. He waits for Felix to grasp his hand. When nothing happens, Sylvain raises his free arm and squints down at Felix. He’s standing on the gathered bricks serving as steps, eyes narrowed and searching Sylvain’s face. “If you try anything, you’re dead.”

“Noted.”

Felix finally lowers his lamp. With his other hand, he grasps Sylvain’s extended one, fingers curling tightly around it. It’s stupid, because to make it, Sylvain has to lean out of the hole, knees and the pads of his free hand digging into the attic floor. And then he has to crawl backwards with Felix scrambling for a second hold, which is worse than pulling up dead weight. At least Sylvain doesn’t hit his head again. Neither does Felix. After gaining a hold next to Sylvain, who retreats farther to make room, Felix shines his lamp everywhere including into Sylvain’s face again.

“Not fond of light?” he asks when Sylvain squints.

“In case you haven’t realized, I’m nocturnal.”

“Ah.” Felix keeps the light trained on Sylvain whose upper lip pulls back from his fangs involuntarily. “Can you move?”

“Whatever it is you’re looking for, there’s nothing here to find.”

“Just get out of the way.” Felix shoves Sylvain to the side and into the wall, knocking the breath out of him. Blinded by the lamp, Sylvain scrambles for the hole and drops down, slipping on Felix’s makeshift steps. Colors and stars still dance in Sylvain’s vision, but at least he can see again. Now here’s to hoping Felix didn’t register his graceless getaway.

To chance at fooling Felix into thinking Sylvain went of his own volition and not because he’s stopped being fond of this much light some centuries ago, Sylvain waits by the hole. He hears Felix shuffle around up there and watches his lamp cast flickering light and large shadows all around. Rubble and dust flake down from the ceiling.

Light and then a large shadow cross the space of the hole as Felix crawls over it onto the other side. Sylvain kicks the makeshift stair steps away. There’s nothing for him to do but loiter while Felix rolls around in bat droppings. Maybe a dead one’s going to stick to his clothes, and cobwebs adorn his hair. This would be funny. This is why Sylvain stays. This is what he tells himself.

Felix apparently explores the whole of the bats’ nest in his mad quest of finding whatever hidden tomb he’s looking for and won’t find up there. Or what is he doing? He’s clearly trying to search the place. Sylvain turns the thought over as he steps aside to look at the dark night sky out of one of the broken windows. Jagged pieces of stained glass are still set into the frame, the triangles looking not too unlike Sylvain’s pointed teeth. He pushes a gloved finger against one piece of glass in the top, breaking it off and watching it fall to the ground. There’s a high clang when it reaches the ground level, likely imperceptible to Felix’s ears.

Sylvain continues picking the window frame clean like this, humming the song the shards make on impact. Felix still isn’t done, but his shout of, “Ouch!” preceded by a knock and followed by a string of curses makes Sylvain smile. When he’s sure he won’t prick his ass on stray pieces of glass jutting out like stalagmites, he climbs into the window frame and watches the night sky, legs dangling. The cold air seems starker, lapping at the little body heat Sylvain tries to contain futilely in his clothes lined with wool.

A faintly perceptible band of stars glitters in the sky, almost completely obscured by clouds. An owl flies past after a while, wings silent and strong. Sylvain waves to the animal that doesn’t even notice him. It’s boring. It always is.

Eventually, he’s released by Felix making a gruff noise as he jumps down from the attic. “Why did you put away the bricks?” he demands as Sylvain leans backwards and turns around to watch him. Felix really is covered in grime.

“If you landed weird on them you could’ve broken your ankle.”

“As if.”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t want to be nursed back to health by yours truly.”

Felix marches over to Sylvain. “The same something that told you I wouldn’t want you to help me down?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re hearing voices, you should have your head checked.”

Sylvain laughs, then pats the free space next to him. “Join me.”

“Why should I? You could push me down.”

“You could push _me_ down.”

“I have the feeling you don’t die that easily.” Still, Felix closes the distance and heaves himself up to sit down next to Sylvain, who shuffles to the edge to make space. “So you eat people?” Felix asks after a while spent admiring the cold, dark night, wind blowing back his hair.

“I don’t eat at all.”

“Didn’t you say you fed on them?”

Sylvain raises his head to watch another owl fly past, racking his memories. “I did.” He turns his head to find Felix glaring at him, eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m a hemovore.” The eyes narrow even further. Felix must be blinded his own eyelashes by now, if he can see at all well in the dark. “I ingest blood.”

Felix’s eyes widen, which means he’s still squinting at Sylvain albeit not as much as before. Leaning away from Sylvain, he wrinkles his nose. “Disgusting.”

“I’ve grown rather fond of the taste.” Sylvain smiles, showing his teeth. He can’t tell if Felix is able to make out the serrated edges of them, if he’s been aware of them before, but the fangs he must have seen.

“You killed them, didn’t you.” Though phrased like a question the inflection turns it into a statement.

“I usually do.” Felix remains silent at the revelation, watching Sylvain for a while, then turns his face back towards the night sky. “Seems like you have killed to live, too.”

“I’m not judging.” Neither is Felix scared—his heartbeat is even, his smell is fine despite his faint body odor. He could do with a scrub down. Especially his hair. “But I’m wondering.”

“What about?” Sylvain goes back to dangling his legs. Felix’s remain still beside him.

“Don’t you regard me primarily as food source?” Sylvain laughs at the question, causing Felix to add in a scathing tone, “I’m not talking to my stew.” Which only serves to make Sylvain laugh even more heartily. He only shuts up when Felix shoves at him with enough force to knock his head against the mason window frame.

“Ouch…” Sylvain rubs his head. He won’t get a lump, but this doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“Stop laughing at me.”

“I laughed at the _idea_!”

“And stop whining.” Felix rolls his eyes.

Sylvain exhales loudly. “To answer your question: No, I don’t. I mean, yes, I could gobble you right up, but stew hasn’t talked back to me so far. You have.” Sylvain tilts his head. Felix keeps staring straight ahead into the dark night as though doing so pointedly. “There’s awareness and intelligence in you that stew lacks.”

“I got it the first time.”

Then he shouldn’t have asked. Sylvain doesn’t do more than arch an eyebrow.

He listens to Felix breathe lightly and evenly, listens to the song of his blood traveling through his body. All this talk stirs Sylvain’s interest. “What did you see in the bandits then?” Felix asks. “Food? Or human beings?”

“What do you see in the people you kill?” Sylvain throws the question back at him. “Killing is never easy, but it gets easier with time. I try not to weigh the worth of a life against another.” Sylvain frowns, the following words sour on his tongue with the pain of memories. “But I hate bandits.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps it’s the misguided sense of right and wrong, the black-and-white thinking distilled in me at a young age.” Sylvain puts on a smile. Dodging the truth comes easy—it’s never hard to fall back into the patterns. “Don’t forget I was raised as part of the Faerghus nobility.”

“I won’t.” Felix pulls his legs up and retreats into the stronghold.

At first Sylvain follows him only with his eyes, but when Felix wordlessly lights up his lamp again and walks away, Sylvain’s curiosity gets the better of him. “Where’re you going?”

“To sleep.”

“All the way to the nearest inn?”

Felix barks a laugh, short and devoid of humor. “No.” This is all Sylvain gets out of him. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to follow, but then this is _his_ place, and it’s not like Felix hasn’t pointed sharp-edged blades at him already. Melting into the shadows, Sylvain follows Felix around a corner.

He keeps his distance which proves to be a good call when Felix suddenly turns around, the lamp swinging on its hook, oil sloshing, flames sprouting up. If there’s no shadow, Sylvain can’t conceal his presence. The light doesn’t reach to him, however. Felix’s eyes narrow and he waits for several heartbeats, then turns back around and continues onward.

He rounds another corner. By the time Sylvain does so, too, Felix is gone. Sylvain can feel him in the first room, the door half-rotten and letting through the lamp’s light anyway. This is where Sylvain stops. He peeks inside and finds where Felix made camp. A small tent hugs one of the walls, the front flapped open. Inside is the bag Sylvain retrieved for Felix, crumpled on the far end of his bedroll. Next to it are a travel cooking set and a small pitcher of water. Outside, a chamber pot resides, the smell wafting to Sylvain, but it’s not as strong as he’d expected. Felix barred the windows with a dark cloth draped over them, keeping out the worst of the North Faerghus cold and wind, likely at least some of the rain, and unwelcome winged guests.

Felix dims his lamp and places it on the floor, close to his tent. After unbuckling his weapons, he kicks off his boots. Sylvain frowns, turns his back, and leaves, steps quiet.

There’s too much other information—or rather, the lack of it—occupying his mind. Flinging himself out of one of the windows, he lands in a crouch, fingertips resting on the ground. A human would have at least broken something, but Sylvain shrugs the impact off with ease, his bones merely tingling. Stretching himself, Sylvain yawns. He hopes the fresh, cold air will ease his worries somewhat.

Because whatever Felix is doing here stinks.

The best Sylvain can do for now is play the friendly neighborhood monster and wrap Felix around a finger to get him to divulge his dirty little secret.


	4. Chapter 4

This night Sylvain finds Felix in what used to be the stronghold’s garden, located square in the middle of it, walled in on all sides. With his sword, Felix is hacking away at vines turned wooden to forge a way through the overgrown mess, the lamp hooked on his belt bouncing with the movements. In an attempt not to spook him a fourth time, Sylvain sits down on the mossy bark of an upturned tree, long since rotting and being eaten away at by other plants, mushrooms, and animals. He watches Felix work silently, swallowing all the advice he could offer him that too would be met with the cutting edge of the blade in Felix’s hand.

Eventually, Felix registers Sylvain’s presence, a jolt going through him, his heart missing a beat and then hammering away to make up for it. “Since when are you sitting there?” he asks, voice dripping venom.

Sylvain shrugs. “Twenty minutes?”

Felix sighs. His voice has always been raspy and rough, but it’s more pronounced today. “I don’t like you sneaking up on me.”

“I’m just sitting here!” Sylvain opens his arms wide. “Need I remind you I live here? I can go wherever I please, whenever I please. _Your presence_ , on the other hand, is merely tolerated by me.” Sylvain nods to Felix’s attempt at clearing a way. “And look what you’re doing with your privilege! Wreaking havoc and destruction.”

“Don’t make me laugh.” Felix turns his back to Sylvain, raises his sword, and resumes his demolition spree.

Sylvain stands up, causing Felix to pause in his movements and give him a sidelong glance. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you any sense of shame?” Using his sword, Felix points at the crumbling walls. “I can’t possibly make this place look worse. If anything, I’m helping you clean up right now.” He thrusts the sword point at Sylvain’s chest.

Sylvain takes a step back in time. “Is this your purpose here?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I told you already. I’m passing through.”

“How about _I_ tell _you_ I’m not buying it.” Sylvain puts on a sweet smile and stretches nonchalantly. Felix grimaces at Sylvain, lips pulled back in a snarl disguised as the effort of hacking away branches Sylvain could rip out with ease. “C’mon. I’ll keep your secret.”

“Look, the truth is that I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Sylvain waits until Felix has won half a whopping meter. Since there seems to be no further explanation forthcoming, Sylvain prompts, “And that’s why you’re camping out here?”

“Yes.”

This is it, once again. Sylvain can’t shake the feeling he’s feeding Felix with convenient excuses for his stay. Sighing, he walks forward into Felix’s range, bending and cracking branches. “How long do you intend to stay?”

“You gave me an ultimatum.”

“Which you’ll ignore, given the chance.” Sylvain steps closer into his guard, whispering into Felix’s ear. “You don’t reek of fear. I like it.”

Felix clamps a hand over his ear, clenches his teeth, and pirouettes with his sword angled high enough to sever Sylvain’s head. He’s long gone by the time Felix’s sword cuts through the air with a speed and ferocity its trajectory is audible, concealing himself in the shadows with a swiftness Felix can’t humanly match. Yet the growl he meets Sylvain’s sudden disappearance with sounds far from human.

Sylvain steps back into the light a few meters farther into the brambles and branches, beckoning Felix to follow. Small animals scatter out of their way. “You could do with the odd lesson about proper conduct and etiquette, you know?”

“If you’re this easy-going, you must think yourself safe from my attacks anyway.”

“I’ve always been reckless.” Sylvain waits and turns around, standing in place until Felix catches up to him. He’s still holding his sword, his grip on it tight enough to strain the muscles in his hand if he keeps this up. “I bet you know what it’s like to love the thrill.”

“To stare into death’s eyes? Yes.”

“See?”

“I don’t like making prolonged eye contact, however.”

Sylvain clicks his tongue. “’Tis a shame with eyes as pretty as yours.” He sees the elbow jab coming and doesn’t dodge. He deserves it. Biting back an unfelt whine, Sylvain steps on a thick root, ducks under the low-hanging branches of the tree it belongs to, and kicks aside a shrub that can go grow somewhere else for all he cares. The light from Felix’s lamp finally illuminates crumbling stonework still forming a piled circle. The wood and rope are long gone. “The well, the only point of interest here.”

Felix passes Sylvain to take a closer look, sliding his sword back down its scabbard. The fire from his lamp casts a yellow hue on the stones brown with dirt and green with moss. “I’ll kill you if you push me in.”

“I won’t. I’m not my brother.”

“There’s two of you?” Felix sounds incredulous but doesn’t turn around for Sylvain to get a closer look at his expression. The fearless man that he is, Felix steps right up to the well’s edge and shines his lamp down its pit, leaning over the well’s frame.

“He was human and died long ago.” Sylvain sighs. “Good riddance.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I was forced to.” Sylvain swallows. The memories still haunt him after all these centuries. “I was still a human back then.”

“So you turned into a beast later?”

“Yes.” Sylvain steps up to the well. Brushing a gloved hand over the stones won’t change anything, and he’s likely heavy enough to dislocate anything not grown onto it. Still, he sits down, watching Felix straighten his back again.

He fixes Sylvain with a stare uncertain for the first time, the fire dancing in his eyes. “How long ago did all that happen?”

“Did Seiros censor history once again or why don’t you know about the margravate Gautier?”

“Bold guess that I’m an educated man.”

“With a fancy dagger and an expensive-looking sword?” Sylvain grins. “With the way you talk and behave? You are.”

“Answer my question.”

“Which year do we write?” Sylvain smiles sheepishly, a gloved hand clasping the back of his neck. “My sense of time has been messed up for a while now.”

“Year of Apostels, 812.”

“Oh.” This doesn’t tell Sylvain anything. Well, if they changed the calenders shortly after the kingdom’s demise, then he can wager a guess. Has it really been this long? It sure never felt this way. Felix’s eyes narrow at Sylvain, reminding him to give an answer. “About eight centuries ago.”

“So you’re an Immortal.”

“I’m different from the lizards.” Sylvain puts on one of his sweet smiles.

“Lizards?” Felix casts around himself and sits down on a fallen tree across from Sylvain. Whatever it is that piqued his interest, his heart rate is slowing, his whole body relaxing. He places the lamp next to him, Sylvain illuminated by its light just so.

“Seiros. Cichol and Cethleann tended to hang around, too.”

“The Saints?”

“Is this what they fancy themselves nowadays?” Leaning forward with his hands on his thighs, Sylvain grins, all teeth now. “You know what they say about hubris.”

“If you mean arrogance, yes. How they feel like they can demand other people to show certain attitudes and behaviors. Mainly respect and prayer.”

“Oh, it’s more. Originally, the word meant the transgression against the gods by claiming you’re on-par with them, or worse, better.” Sylvain watches the expression on Felix’s face as realization settles in: His features relax, then harden into another scowl, and something flashes behind his eyes.

“Oh.”

“Now the question is: Did our gods commit hubris, too, by giving themselves the title? I’m too young to have met Sothis, but if Seiros is really related to her, then that’s an easy-to-draw conclusion.”

“I’ll need to think about your blasphemies.” Felix shifts his weight. “Now why do you call them lizards?”

“They can transform into dragons.”

“Dragons are a fairy tale.” Still, Felix’s eyebrows draw down.

Sylvain smiles. “You must have seen your fair deal of beasts and monsters, what with you wandering around with your weapons.” Felix looks down into his lap, his hands balling into fists. He doesn’t deny it. “Indech appears closer to a turtle than a bona-fide dragon, but I can assure you Seiros and Macuil look the part.”

Felix raises his head, one of his hands pinching and stroking his chin. “What do you transform into?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“Then how are you an Immortal?”

“It’s in the blood.” Sylvain smiles. “I’ll be honest, I’m curious what you taste like.”

Felix tenses. One of his hands is already pulling out the poniard by its hilt. “No.”

“Yes, I do.” Sylvain keeps smiling and leans forward a little more for Felix’s lamp to fling light against the sharp edges of his teeth. “I have a proposal to make.”

“I don’t deal with the devil.”

“Smart man.” Sylvain leans back again, his hands still resting on his thighs. “Lucky you I’m no devil.” Felix relaxes and slides the poniard back into his boot. Good so far. “I’m intrigued by you, Felix. You proved to be an amiable partner for conversation. I want to know,” Sylvain licks his lips and forces his voice to go deeper, “if you have more surprises waiting for me.”

Felix narrows his eyes. “What is it you want?”

“I want to taste you.”

“I said: No.”

“Hear me out. Your wager will be a single drop of your blood. Nothing more. You won’t even feel it—I’m very gentle.”

“No.” Felix gets up abruptly. The oil sloshes in his lamp when he picks it up and forces himself to make an exit through the overgrown garden.

Sylvain follows him in the shadows. “I’ve seen how you live here. In a cold room with no amenities, with the wind howling day in and night out, with a hard floor to sleep on, with no way to wash your greasy, lice-ridden hair—”

“My hair isn’t greasy!” Felix whirls around, holding his lamp every which way. Dodging the erratic light is too much work, so Sylvain stands still and lets Felix find him.

“It is. And you _have_ lice. I can almost smell your blood, but you stink so much from grime and sweat that it’s hard to make out.”

Felix snarls, almost growls. Humans are so cute. Sylvain can’t help but smile. “What do you _want_?”

“Oh, you know that already. What I offer you, what I wager, is for you to stay in my personal quarters, which happen to be substantially cleaner than the rest of this place.”

“So you can eat me in my sleep? No thanks.” Felix turns back around and continues his trek.

Sylvain catches up to him, this time staying in the light right by Felix’s side. “Hey, I told you I don’t _eat_ people.”

“Does it matter when I end up dead either way?”

“Don’t commodities like hot water, soap, a fireplace, an actual, flea-free bed, _me_ in my sleep, easy to behead… Isn’t any of this attractive to you?”

Felix ducks under a branch Sylvain drops to his knees for. “What you offer is a truce.”

“Yes. I won’t harm you if you won’t harm me, easy as that. You only have to best me for it.”

“I will.”

“You don’t even know in what.”

“Tell me.”

“The thrill of the fight, huh.” Sylvain laughs and interlaces his fingers behind his head. “I’d sure love to see you swing around your sword in battle for once.”

“A duel.” Felix’s tone sounds approving. Sylvain gives him a sidelong glance and sees the first careful smile tugging the other man’s lips almost imperceptibly upwards.

“You like the sound of that, huh.”

“It would be unfair if we fought in the dark.”

“Would it be?” Sylvain rubs his chin and grins. “I’ll prepare some torches. Find a good place with enough sconces so we can light the place up a bit.”

“Good. We should discuss rules anyway.”

“Anything in mind already?” Sylvain follows Felix into an opening in the wall, around the one wall of the stronghold not terribly overgrown.

“Swords only. No kicking nor punching.” After a second, Felix adds, “Nor _biting_ either. The one to draw first blood wins.”

“This’ll be fun.”

Unperturbed by Sylvain following him—he did make it clear he knew where Felix camps anyway, so the other man likely figures there’s no point in hiding the fact—Felix leads him up the several flights of stairs to the room he picked for himself. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t make this an unfair match by abusing your… beast abilities.”

“That’d take the whole fun out of it!”

“Glad you agree.” When they reach the threshold to the room, Felix turns around pointedly. “Swear.”

“Swear what?”

“That you’re going to play by the rules.”

Sylvain turns over his right hand to unfasten the metal gauntlet protecting his hand and wrist. Once it’s off, he pulls off the glove and spits in his palm. “You, too.”

Felix scowls but mimics Sylvain. It’s him who clasps Sylvain’s hand in a strong grip promising more to come, and it’s him who pulls away first to wipe his palm against his breeches.

Sylvain laughs at the display. “It’s sealed.”

“You’re fucking freezing.”

“And you’re deliciously hot.” Sylvain grins, all teeth. “See you tomorrow night, Felix.”

Felix only scowls at Sylvain, who makes a soundless retreat. When he’s out of Felix’s earshot, he starts whistling, his free hand tingling with the memory of Felix’s warm skin and warmer spittle.


	5. Chapter 5

Sylvain wouldn’t describe himself as a picky person, or perhaps his tastes simply range from anything to everything. But confronted with his small armory he just can’t seem to find the right sword.

His weapon of choice—disregarding how the change weaponized his body, enhanced his senses and his strength, gave him powerful tools to wreck other beings—is the Lance of Ruin. Sylvain touches a still ungloved hand to it, and the Lance flares to life, lighting up in its eerie glow, the teeth twitching with anticipation. “Not tonight, buddy,” Sylvain whispers and retracts his hand. The Lance goes back to sleep.

Swords were never really Sylvain’s thing. During his life as Margrave, and before, as little more than a common soldier with a fancy title under the tutelage of the Church and his family, he preferred mounted combat to fighting on foot. No sword could ever live up to the range of his Lance, nor to any other blade on a stick, and stabbing, piercing—Sylvain allows himself a smirk at the word—has always been much more his style than slashing.

Still, the odd blade rests in his wooden sword rack. There are some in there that can compare or even outdo Felix’s sword in terms of fanciness, but Sylvain isn’t sure how to judge a blade’s worth based on utility. Picking up each one of them, he finds his eye for beauty betrayed him, as several of the blades are weighted terribly. In the end, Sylvain has the choice between a double-edged zweihänder and a smaller, shorter spatha that looks like a toothpick compared to the other sword.

No, Sylvain doesn’t feel the need to compensate, but when he faces Felix, he better be equipped with a real sword. Right?

Next up are the torches. Strips of cloth soaked in oil and fastened around a stick should do the trick, and if they don’t, see if Sylvain cares if this place goes up in flames. If he didn’t rely on his night vision so much, he’d perhaps not have given away all the oil lamps he had, and it doesn’t appear as though Felix carries more than the one.

After fastening a sword belt around his hips, Sylvain slides the zweihänder into it. He dons the rest of his plate armor, grabs the prepared torches, and exits his refuge in search of Felix.

* * *

His short human lifespan has been over for such a long time that Sylvain doesn’t remember how to carry himself like a human being anymore. _Clumsy_ is at the top of his list, but if he tried to emulate this, he’ll end up with a performance meant to make the fine folk at court laugh, not with an estimation of how a human moves. Next up is _loud_. Under no circumstances should Sylvain conceal his presence.

His plate armor and his heavy steps alert Felix, who’s busy chipping away at an old insect nest, long since abandoned, built in the corner of one of the middle floor rooms. He can only reach it because he’s built himself another staircase out of loose brickwork, and from the looks of it, he’s spent the better part of the night (and perhaps even of the preceding day) doing nothing but haul bricks into the room.

“Want another lift?” Sylvain asks. Felix is already glaring at him and shining his lamp in his direction.

“No.”

“There’s nothing in there anyway.”

“How can you be sure?” Sylvain shifts his weight, armor rattling. Felix winces. “Assal’s Spear, be quiet.”

“I thought I was supposed to act human today.”

“You know perfectly well what I meant.” Felix glares at Sylvain for a few of his (not Sylvain’s) heartbeats. “Now answer my question.”

“I can sense living beings in my home. This,” Sylvain nods at the old insect nest, concealing his presence to the point of soundless movements once again, “has long since been abandoned.” He steps up to Felix. The nest is of a light gray color, a small round hole serving as the entrance. Beyond it looms an intricate net of combs. “Looks like a wasps’ nest to me. Or maybe a hornets’.”

Felix’s eyes are on Sylvain for as long as he talks, then he turns back to the nest. He reaches for a crossbow bolt. “This would be one of the worse ways to die,” he mutters, then sticks the bolt inside the hole, fearless as ever. Nothing happens. Felix probes around in it, eventually yanking with a force that sees Sylvain step away lest torn insect nest rains down on him. Eventually, the thing comes apart and drops to the floor, flakes coming loose and falling like feathers. Felix gets down from his piled-up bricks and stomps on the remains of the nest for good measure. “Nothing in here.”

“See?” Sylvain stretches and grins. “I’m no liar.”

“We’ll see about that.” Lamp in hand, Felix strides past Sylvain. “I found a place for our duel that will do.”

So he noticed the sword, and perhaps even Sylvain’s attempt at torches. Whistling a tune under his breath, Sylvain follows Felix out of the room and around the outer hallways to the opposite end of the stronghold. The moon is waning, but the sky is clear and the hallway basked in a silver glow. The band of stars greets Sylvain and he greets it back, waving one of the torches at it.

“What in fuck’s name are you doing?” Felix asks, voice dryer than the dust around them.

“I’m a connoisseur of beauty.” Sylvain turns his smile on Felix and is met with a frown. Looking past him, Sylvain sees he must have cleared the hallway of the worst of the grime. There are more than enough sconces mounted on the walls, mostly clean of dust as if either carried here or wiped off. “I brought two torches.”

“I noticed.” Felix holds out a gloved hand. Sylvain hands over a torch. In a crouch, Felix places his lamp on the floor for the time being to light the torch with the aid of his tinderbox. He needs several times for the sparks to catch, and Sylvain breathes a sigh of relief at the torch flaring up but not exploding in Felix’s face. Drawing himself back up to his somewhat lacking height, Felix shoves the burning torch in Sylvain’s face.

Lips pulling back from his teeth, Sylvain squeezes his welling-up eyes shut and takes a blind step backwards. “Careful,” he says when he wants to hiss and snarl and bite instead.

“Like an animal.” Felix snatches the other torch from Sylvain’s wavering grip. Spots of color are still dancing behind his lids.

“No unfair tactics. From either side. That’s the deal.”

“I wanted to hold the torch to yours to ignite it.”

“Then don’t hold it to my face.” Sylvain blinks the tears from his eyes. “I’m not the torch.”

“Bet you would burn well.” Felix turns his back to Sylvain, one torch in either hand, to place them in two of the mounted sconces.

“As a matter of fact, I’m too moist for that.”

“Moist,” Felix repeats under his breath, too quiet to have been picked up by human ears at this distance. He shakes his head, then turns back around to Sylvain. “Place the lamp in the middle, against the outer wall.”

“Toss it outside?” Sylvain picks the lamp up by its hook, a big grin on his face.

“No! In the hallway!”

“Sure.” Sylvain does as he’s bid. “I hope this is enough light for you.”

“It’s enough to make you kiss the floor by.”

“I prefer kissing bodies.” At Felix’s scowl, Sylvain adds, “Live ones.”

“Do you mean giving them the kiss of death and ripping out their throats, or do you mean you take actual lovers?”

“Aw, is someone interested?” Sylvain winks, dancing out of the way of Felix’s fist. “Yes, I entertain human lovers from time to time.”

“I thought you killed everyone.”

“By now, I would’ve thought you figured out I’m not a mindless beast.” Sylvain draws his sword. “I see the merit in human company, like yours, for example.”

Felix scoffs. “Let’s begin.” He draws his sword from his scabbard. “Ten paces from the middle of the hallway. Then we’ll start.”

“All right.” Felix trails after Sylvain. When they reach the middle of the hallway, at a right angle from the lamp, he touches his blade to Sylvain’s. Both turn around, a smile playing on Sylvain’s lips. After ten paces, he swivels around and finds Felix gauging him. “Ready when you are.” So he’s really not going to wear more than a leather shield on his left shoulder. Cocky brat.

“Let’s go.” With no further preamble, Felix charges, and Sylvain takes a few steps towards him in kind. He sidesteps Felix’s first blow and brings up his sword in a two-handed grip to parry a second one. Sparks fly from the metal, the ringing making Sylvain want to stuff his ears.

He retreats by walking backwards, meeting Felix’s erratic lunges and swipes either with his own sword or not at all by opting to dance around the attacks instead. The smile is still prominent on his lips, and Sylvain hopes the torches and lamp cast enough light for Felix to see it.

The end of the hallway is approaching fast, so Sylvain turns the tables on Felix with his first wide swipe. Felix draws in air sharply, suppressing a cough from the dust lining his lungs. Although he manages to dodge, he stays on the offensive. Well, all right. Sylvain keeps sidestepping his moves in quarters close enough to make it obvious he’s playing with his prey. Licking his lips, he emerges behind Felix and brings down his sword in his two-handed grip. Felix raises his bare shield arm as though he could meet the blow like this, remembering a split-second too late that he is not equipped with any such shield.

His heart is stuttering in his chest, his breath coming in short, desperate gulps. His eyes are widened with the realization he could lose his arm, his _life_. It’s delicious, until the sweat sets in.

Sylvain halts his sword, waiting for Felix’s reaction. The shorter man’s shoulders slump and he steps out of the attack, eyeing Sylvain with suspicion. “Why didn’t you strike?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to keep up with you without making use of my speed.”

Felix’s eyes narrow, the suspicion melting into disdain. “You cheated. Does this mean you surrender?”

Sylvain sees the light still burning in Felix’s eyes, hears the blood singing with the will to battle. “I do want a taste—”

Felix’s sword comes up so fast that he’d have ruined Sylvain’s face for days to come if Sylvain hadn’t abused his speed once more. Felix advances on him again, his strikes faster and more vicious than before. It appears this has been a game for him as well, designed to trap Sylvain into tapping into his powers. Interesting. Sylvain’s lips pull back in a grin. He likes the little human more and more.

Felix’s swordsmanship only now shows its true colors, and even with his speed, Sylvain isn’t sure he can keep up. He has to parry more and more blows as Felix gives him less and less room to safely maneuver in, making full use of his sword’s range and the edged side of the blade. Yeah, Sylvain has nothing on him.

Confronted with the certainty that he won’t be able to win by staying on the defensive, Sylvain risks his win by bringing up his sword to Felix’s neck.

Well, that’s the plan at any rate. Felix has none of it. He parries, locking their blades together. Sylvain puts more pressure on his grip, trying to push through. Felix flicks his wrist and angles his sword in a way that makes Sylvain stumble forward with nothing there anymore to throw his weight against. He runs his own sword into the wall, where it clangs off.

Sylvain turns around to find Felix lower his sword and declare, “It’s a draw.”

“What now?” Sylvain inspects his sword. It’d be easy for him to dent it on accident, but it appears to be undamaged.

“We’ll have us a real duel, without pretending to be weaklings.” Felix grins in a challenge.

“All right.” Sylvain stretches, the tip of his blade tickling the ceiling. “I should’ve been more of an asshole.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s easy to disturb the dust here.” To demonstrate his point, Sylvain stomps, causing a cloud of dirt to puff up into the air. As expected, Felix shields his face. Sylvain waits for the dust to settle before he speaks up again. “I don’t need to breathe as often as you. It would’ve given me an unfair advantage.”

“So would have dueling in the dark.”

Sylvain smiles.

“And yet you swore you wouldn’t abuse your abilities.” Felix runs a finger over the middle of his blade, starting at the guard and ending at the tip.

“And yet I lost the second time round when I toned it down. Leave me a little leeway.” Sylvain smiles. “You didn’t like it when I rattled around in my armor.”

“I hated it.”

“See?”

Felix sighs. “I simply want the third round to be just.”

“Looking forward to that bath, huh?” Sylvain’s smile broadens into a grin. “I would be, too, if I were in your shoes.”

Felix flips Sylvain off. “Since you cheated, it’s only fair if I get to disregard one of our rules as well.”

“Which one?”

“Find out the hard way.” Felix walks to the middle of the room again. Sylvain follows suit. They touch their swords to each others and turn around to walk ten paces. There, Sylvain looks over to Felix to see him grin. Smug, self-assured, stout. His eyes glint, he takes a deep breath, and charges.

Sylvain meets him halfway, swords clanging against each other’s in their passing. His back is unguarded, and the blow Felix delivers it with his elbow comes unexpected. Sylvain hopes his armor makes it hurt like fuck for Felix. Grunting, Sylvain swivels around, sword held high in front of him to ward off a potential swipe from Felix that doesn’t come. Instead, Felix dives into Sylvain’s guard, drawing his sword across his waist. It would have connected, too, if Sylvain hadn’t possessed his speed to step out of the attack in time.

Staying on the advance, Felix slowly drives Sylvain into a corner. Sylvain waits for his chance to at the very least escape from this onslaught of blade here, blunt there, a strike with the hilt or Felix outright trying to punch him for good measure. Eventually, another left-handed pummel with his fist leaves Felix unguarded long enough for Sylvain to duck under his arm and make a dash. Retreat may be for sore losers, but Sylvain doesn’t see how he can win this. Felix’s rapid steps already sound behind him again, so Sylvain brings up his sword as he turns around, striking where he heard the boots crunch the debris under them.

There’s nothing to see but dust. The particles are everywhere, reflecting the flames’ light and obscuring most of Sylvain’s vision. He strains his ears for Felix’s tell-tale heartbeat, turning just in time to ward off another blow with his sword. Felix presses his advantage, fencing until Sylvain notices the feint a split-second too late and feels the cold steel of Felix’s sword press against his neck.

Something trickles down Sylvain’s skin into his collar, and he knows it’s not sweat like on Felix. After the man removes his sword, saying, “I win,” Sylvain clamps a hand over his neck. His glove is already red, but the dark spot on it is new. Redder. Smelling like life and death at the same time, metallic as if inorganic and yet made from an organism. Slowly looking back up, Sylvain finds Felix regard his own sword. Only a small red fleck on the cutting edge of the blade betrays what happened just now. Noticing Sylvain stare, Felix tenses. “What?”

“Nothing. You won. Maybe not fair and square, but,” Sylvain shrugs, “with an acceptable amount of cheating and triangle?”

“You’re not funny.”

Sylvain touches his tongue to his glove. His gauntlets won’t soak, so he wipes at the wound with them. It’s already closed, the blood in the process of congealing. Whatever. Sylvain takes what he can get, even if it’s his own blood.

Felix’s shoulders relax during this display but he doesn’t sheathe his sword. “For a second I thought you were going to spring me.”

“Haven’t I displayed the utmost honor so far?” Sylvain buckles his sword and is glad when Felix cleans off his own and sheathes it.

“You’re not a mindless beast, I give you that.”

“Thank you.” Sylvain bows, the way he used to when he was alive. This time, Felix doesn’t knock him in the back of the head. “If you’re still interested in what you won, you may find out first-hand I live utterly civilized.”

“Don’t get any funny ideas.”

“Me? Never!”

Felix grunts in reply and picks up his lamp. He hooks it onto his belt, then picks up one of the torches. Sylvain takes the other one, holding it as far behind him as he can and leading the way, so he won’t get Felix’s light in his eyes either. “I have a snuffer cap.”

“Music to my ears.” To drive his point home, Sylvain hums a tune under his breath. He can’t remember the name of the song, can’t recall the text, but fragments of the melody have stuck with him for all these centuries. Felix does his human thing behind him, grumbling and snarling so low he likely thinks Sylvain can’t hear it. Grinning to himself, Sylvain basks in the knowledge that he can. Who knows which other sounds he’ll be able to tickle out of little Felix in time?

Sylvain swaggers into the room Felix designated his. Felix passes him, wordlessly snuffs first his and then Sylvain’s torch, shoves the second torch into Sylvain’s free hand, and says, “Get out.”

The command hurts. Not for the words, no, but for the power. How little of a home does Felix have if he can develop such an attachment to his camp in a drafty, crumbling skeleton of a castle? Sylvain leaves wordlessly. There’s no point in telling Felix that he, Sylvain, has to play by certain rules as well or it means pain.

From beyond the threshold into the room, Sylvain watches Felix methodically pack his few possessions together and strap them to his back. The chamber pot he picks up with his hands and carries outside.

Sylvain wrinkles his nose. “This thing stays outside.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “I have bodily functions. Like shitting.”

“Yeah, but not in my presence.”

“Do you go outside to—”

“No. I don’t eat which means I don’t poop.”

“But piss?”

“Only a little. I can hold it until I go outside.” Sylvain leans closer to Felix. “And I love pissing when I’m alone. All alone. With no one else there. And I hope you feel the same way about _your_ bodily functions.”

As expected, Felix gnashes his teeth. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I will if you leave your dirty pot outside.” Sylvain puts on one of his sweetest smiles, perfected in front of his mirror and practiced for centuries on end. “Of course, we could settle the matter another way. I get a taste of your blood and you can stay in your chamber of choice, which won’t happen to be mine.”

“You don’t get to dream at night.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re awake. Now show me to your personal quarters.”

“Of course, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“I only said you’re _mine_. It doesn’t have to be mutual.” Humming, Sylvain links his hands behind his head and walks Felix down three flights of steps until they’re at ground level again, rattling around in his armor like the obnoxious nuisance he can be. To give credit where it’s due, Felix keeps his mouth shut. His accelerated heartbeat still betrays his true feelings on the matter, however.

* * *

“Where are we going?” Felix asks when Sylvain leads him through a maze of tunnels on the ground level. They just went through the second set of doorways interlinking chambers otherwise not enterable.

To make sure Felix will understand Sylvain, he tones his rattling down to his usual, inaudible gait. “To the heart of my home.” He tilts his head to watch Felix follow him from the corner of an eye. “You can always turn around if you don’t trust me.”

While Sylvain’s remark is met with silence, neither does Felix leave him alone to trudge back to his home of choice, wherever that may lie. Upstairs, likely. No, Felix follows Sylvain through the interconnected chambers until they reach a heavy oaken door standing slightly enough ajar for Sylvain to hook his fingers behind the door and pull it open. The old brass knocker is still mounted onto it, a dent adorning the door where the metal was repeatedly pushed into it. Sylvain left it intact for two purposes: Firstly, it can only add to the door’s weight, making it even harder to pull open from outside. And secondly, he has found out most people really are stupid enough to knock first before trying to storm inside. Their surprise never fails to taste amazing.

As expected, Felix doesn’t comment verbally. He waits for Sylvain to pull the door ajar enough for both of them to slip through one after the other, then wanders around the small hallway to the second oaken door at the other end, shining his lamp around. Sylvain pushes the door they entered through closed, then takes off his gauntlets and gloves to work the threaded chain hidden in his collar loose. On its end dangles a key, the golden coat rubbed away over time to reveal the typical glint of the steel underneath. “The chamber pot stays here,” Sylvain says as he passes Felix who’s inspecting the walls and the ever cleaner floor, to insert the key in the other door’s lock.

“Are you going to lock me in with you?”

“No. I only lock up when I’m outside.” Sylvain smiles. “I’m a light sleeper.”

“Then what were you doing until you reemerged half a week ago?”

“Mainly sleep.” Sylvain smirks and turns the key. The lock clicks open. “I’m still mostly aware of my surroundings, though. And I’m easy to rouse.” Sylvain turns the knob and pulls, again only far enough to grant both him and Felix entrance. “Welcome to my humble abode. You’re allowed to light a few candles, provided you extinguish them again.” Sylvain’s eyes sweep over the familiar halls and rooms of his underground chambers.

“We’ll see.” Felix passes Sylvain. He’s as verbose as ever, preferring to stick his head in each room he passes rather than ask Sylvain for the way. There’s nothing here Felix could get away with in a literal way, so Sylvain lets him have his fun while he visits his armory to rid himself of his sword first and his plate armor second.

Clad in his woolen breeches, shirt, and his wool-lined boots, Sylvain follows Felix’s scent into the righthand room of the two on the far end of the entrance. It houses his fireplace, already alight and spending warmth thanks to Felix, as well as a wooden tub with a linen cloth inside on the other end. Next to this one are propped several cakes of soap along with cloth for cleaning and drying oneself. Against one of the inner walls rests Sylvain’s self-constructed well, smaller and more functional than the one in the stronghold’s yard. He’s already pumped up several bucketloads of water, the buckets standing in a small hollow next to the well.

Unfortunately, Felix seems to be solely interested in stoking the fire, and like he doesn’t give a flying fuck about washing himself.

Well, one way to get him to talk. Sylvain clears his throat, causing Felix to leap into the air like a startled cat. Even his noisome hiss fits the image. Cute. “Aren’t you interested in this?” Sylvain gestures to his tub. It’s elevated on top of several bricks. Under them, a grille is set into the floor masonry through which used-up water can be fed back into the ground.

“It’s cold.”

Sylvain’s eyes narrow. “So what? Have humans invented a way to heat water at a whim yet?”

“No, but—”

“There’s fire here, in case you failed to notice this, too.” Sylvain points at the fireplace, relishing in the way blood colors Felix’s cheeks rosy. Crouching low, Sylvain picks up two of the buckets. Each holds about ten liters, so it’ll take Sylvain about twelve to fill the tub with. “Now get undressed and wash, you filthy little human.” Sylvain wrinkles his nose. “You stink.”

“It’s cold,” Felix reiterates.

“I heard you the first time.” To make his point, Sylvain dumps the first two buckets in the tub. “Cold water will wash off your grime just as well, little human.” He places several buckets on top of the stonework encasing the fireplace to heat up. “Come on, strip for me.”

“Go the fuck away. I can do this myself.”

Sylvain tilts his head. Down here, Felix has no hold over his domain. “Sure. Just make sure not to forget your hair. And your lice.”

“I don’t have lice!”

“I can’t let you sleep in a warm, soft bed with lice in your hair.” Well, the warm part is a lie unless Felix provides his body heat.

“Fuck off.”

Smiling, Sylvain turns around and leaves.

* * *

Sylvain spent his night shut in his library, touching pressed flowers he’s never again going to smell, never again going to see abloom or awake or alive. During this exercise, he kept one ear trained to the room two chambers over, in which Felix hopefully made an effort to get cleaned up. He’s a quiet one (like a cat, always like a cat—perhaps this is why he’s so opposed to water), although the gentle splash of the water was unmistakable to Sylvain’s ears. After the better part of what could have been two hours like as five, Sylvain shuts his tome and walks over again to find Felix dressed in clothes that smell cleaner than the ones they sparred in earlier. So he’s thinking along. Good for him.

Sylvain peeks into the tub. There’s still water in it and it doesn’t even look too grimy. Heating four more buckets to make up for what he’s going to dump down his drain, Sylvain joins Felix in front of the fireplace to soak up some much-welcomed warmth. “I’d like to check if you’re free of lice.”

“I didn’t have any to begin with.” Felix scowls and rolls his eyes at Sylvain.

“How long are you going to keep this up for?” Sylvain’s upper lip pulls back from his teeth, revealing their pointed tips. “I’m not fond of the competition they pose.”

“Because they bite and eat blood?”

Sylvain chuckles. “This, and because they crawl all over you.” He modulates his voice to hit a deeper register. Leaning closer to Felix is cutting it a little too close for Felix’s liking, however, and he lashes out at Sylvain, shoving him away from him. Whereas Felix’s hands are already dry, the sudden movement causes droplets to fly from his hair and sizzle out in the flickering fire. Sylvain takes the hint and gets up to check on the water. It’ll still take some time to heat up. Keeping his distance from Felix, he asks, “Where do you live?”

“Here.”

“Not ‘where are you living’. I meant it generally. Don’t you have family? Some even littler Felixes to take care of?” The latter comment earns Sylvain a glance barely concealing Felix’s irritation.

“I don’t.”

“No parents, siblings, cousins?”

“No. And we don’t talk about it.”

“All right.” Sylvain sighs. “Then how about a home? Someplace to return to once you’ve finished your business here.”

“No.”

“Then where will you go?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Sylvain keeps his eyes from narrowing with suspicion and instead places his easy smile on his face. It’s not like Felix is looking anywhere but into the fire anyway. “Suit yourself. I’m going to wash now, too.”

To make his point clear enough for Felix, Sylvain works the buttons of his shirt loose and dumps it next to the tub. The boots and socks come off next, and clad in nothing but his breeches riding lower on his hips with every step he takes, Sylvain walks back and forth between fireplace and tub to fill it with hot water. Scowling, Felix grabs his stuff and leaves.

“Don’t get into my bed,” Sylvain says to his retreating back. “I don’t want your lice on me.”

Felix doesn’t stop in his tracks, doesn’t give the slightest outward sign that he’s heard. But he has, Sylvain knows, because his heartbeat quickens in the unmistakable mix of displeasure and anger Sylvain has come to expect from Felix.

After ridding himself of the last of his garments, Sylvain climbs into the tub. Eyes closed, he sinks under the water for a good ten minutes, simply relaxing and letting his body soak up as much warmth as possible. Coming back up, Sylvain takes a deep breath, then works the soap everywhere. If Felix was the tiniest bit thorough, Sylvain is likely sharing his bath with dead lice and other parasites. He bares his teeth at the disgusting thought. A second rub down it is.

Watching the no doubt dirty water flow through the grille into the earth, Sylvain dries himself with a big cloth. Then he quickly changes into clothes covering everything but his hands and his head, and huddles in front of the fireplace in the futile attempt to draw more warmth into his body.

It’s ironic. Sylvain smiles ruefully at the fire, eyes narrowed against the brightness of the flames licking up. The short time he was human he hated heat with all the passion a brat hailing from the harshest, cruelest, coldest climate in all of Faerghus could muster. He was bred for life on feeble crops grown over the summer months which never allotted to more than three in a row, and for the long, dark winters that neither knew compassion nor pity.

The time he spent at the Officers’ Academy for his formal education in arms and warfare is a dim memory by now that mostly stuck for the masses of beautiful women he seduced. The other memory of note was how warm the place was compared to home. Even in winter there, Sylvain found himself rolling up his sleeves or forgoing his long-sleeved jacket altogether, while summer saw him leaving at the very least the top buttons of his dress shirt open. The reprimands at Cichol’s hand were countless. And worth it.

And then, back home, _this_ happened. _This_ means Sylvain’s heart being filled with the bitter chill that creeps into every Gautier’s heart after a while. _This_ means the ruthlessness with which he killed his brother, the hot blood seeping over his hands, the Lance of Ruin feeding on the idea of fratricide as much as on the spilled life force. And _this_ means Sylvain’s eventual descend into what he is now: A beast, little Felix calls it. A monster. An Immortal. Eternally cold. Dead to the day, to the sun, to warmth and life. Numb to the pain and suffering he’s dealt for centuries now, least of all in his role as Margrave.

Yet he’s still walking this earth.

Sighing, Sylvain heaves himself up. The flames can go out on their own; if he’s lucky, they’ll still be burning tomorrow. He makes sure the small windows located so high in this room that Sylvain has to climb a chair to get to them are open to feed the fire—and to a lesser degree, himself and Felix—with air. They are barred with dyed cloth that keeps the sunlight out to a manageable degree. The candles Felix lit in his wake Sylvain douses until he encounters him in his bedroom, in a bundle of cloth on the floor, rolled into a fetal position. He looks like he’s fast asleep, even with his fingers curled around his sword’s grip.

Sylvain climbs over him, soundless and graceful as always, and into his bed.

He should louse Felix tomorrow, he thinks as he turns his back to Felix like he’s wishing for Felix’s blade to slide between his ribs. Sleep doesn’t come easy, doesn’t come for a while, as Sylvain squeezes his eyes shut and contemplates all the wrong turns he took during his existence. What a fun pastime when immortality means you should revel and party, celebrate life and enjoy everything it has to offer to its fullest extent.

This will pass, Sylvain tells himself like he’s done countless times before. This will pass, and tomorrow he’ll be back good as new. Because this is what immortality means, too: You don’t die easily. And you always come back, one way or another.

* * *

_**End of Part 1** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went forth and did a little illustration!  
> https://twitter.com/flowerboy_11/status/1339339205625909260  
> https://flowerboy-11.tumblr.com/post/637700249017843712/  
> Thank you all for your support so far <3


	6. Chapter 6

_**Part 2: Dark, adj.** _

_**1\. Devoid or partially devoid of light; transmitting only a portion of light;** _

_**2\. Wholly or partially black; a low or very low lightness; being less light in color than other substances of the same kind;** _

_**3\. Arising from or showing evil traits or desires; dismal, gloomy; lacking knowledge or culture; relating to grim or depressing circumstances;** _

_**4\. Not clear to the understanding; not known or explored because of remoteness;** _

_**5\. Not fair in complexion;** _

_**6\. Secret;** _

_**7\. Possessing depth and richness;** _

_**8\. Closed to the public.** _

* * *

When Sylvain awakes, Felix isn’t gone. Oh no, he’s doing the exact opposite, which is heating broth over the fireplace as though he owns the place and plans to stay. At least this is what Sylvain can tell by smell. By sight, all Sylvain can decipher is Felix, who’s standing over his bed, staring him down, the light of his lamp casting flickering bright patches around the room.

“Hasn’t anyone told you not to watch other people when they sleep?” Sylvain rubs his eyes. “It’s creepy.”

“I saw your lance.”

Now this has Sylvain wide awake in no time. “Which one?” He looks down at himself, even if his whole body is covered by the cocoon of blankets and his clothes he wrapped himself in in a futile attempt to stave off the cold.

His head snaps back up when he senses Felix’s face heat up. “The spear-like weapon usually carried by cavalry.” He averts his eyes. Sylvain follows his gaze to a stone wall, his and Felix’s shadows dancing on it. “It looks like it’s carved from bone.” The Lance of Ruin. “Terribly ugly, like everything here.”

Now that hurt, both Sylvain’s pride at what he built himself down here as well as his understanding that he is, in human terms, an attractive specimen. “You take that last part back.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I won’t.” Felix’s eyes flit over Sylvain. He grabs his lamp, turns around sharply and makes for the fireplace and his broth, Sylvain assumes.

Despite his inability to heat himself up sufficiently, it was comfortable under the blankets Sylvain drops. He makes his bed, sniffing at the sheets and finding no traces of lice. Good so far. This leaves only Felix. Oh, after his hurtful words, he won’t like Sylvain’s cheery disposition.

Slipping into an additional pair of breeches and then a coat Sylvain doesn’t mind getting vermin on, he follows Felix’s scent. He finds him standing over the pot from his personal belongings, stirring his broth with a wooden spoon.

“Smells good,” Sylvain says, ignoring the way his mouth still waters at the smell of food, how his stomach twists even if he’s good for another week at the very least. “Where did you find the ingredients?”

“Since your homovore thing—”

Sylvain laughs, causing Felix to turn around and fix him with a scowl. “Hemovore, Felix. Please.” He walks up to him and looks down into the pot. Onions, garlic, turnips and meat are swirling around in the water.

Gnashing his teeth, Felix does a good growl impression for a human, then turns back to watch his oh-so interesting soup. “I went to town since you don’t have anything. I checked.”

Huh. So he remembered the way back down here (or was very quick about finding it again). “I told you I don’t eat.”

“And I made sure.”

“So you’re telling me you walked for four hours today, just to eat some soup?” In Felix’s shoes, Sylvain would have stayed the fuck away and not come back. This smells worse the longer he thinks about it.

“I need to stay fit.” This feeble excuse makes Sylvain laugh again. If Felix is capable of moving the heavy oaken doors by himself, he’s in the best of shapes. “Let me eat in peace. I’m famished.”

“Sure. Come see me afterwards. I’ll be in my study.” As expected, Felix doesn’t ask where it’s located, only grunting in reply. Before Sylvain exits the room, he washes his face with a cloth and cold water, then checks it in the mirror. His hair (and nails for that matter) take a lot longer to grow than a human’s unless he’s recently fed, so he can forgo shaving for another few days.

As Sylvain leaves Felix alone in earnest, his nose twitches at the trails of scent Felix left everywhere he went. He scoured the whole place while Sylvain was out, left his unmistakable tang of spicy sweat and, yes, musky manliness everywhere. At least he was clean while doing so, or Sylvain would have resorted to scrubbing his chambers until the dull stones shone and gleamed like diamonds.

Settling into his study, Sylvain prepares ink and writes himself a neat list of things that he either need purchase or frankly do around the manor. Perhaps Felix can make himself useful, earn some extras to his stay here since he seems to be in no rush of leaving. Keeping a human around—someone who isn’t crippled by the day and everything that these nasty hours encompass—is beneficial for numerous reasons, least of all having a handy source of blood.

If only there weren’t that problem with Felix’s apparent obsession with _something_ around this place.

Well, seems like they will both need to compromise on this. Running his tongue along his serrated teeth, Sylvain hopes it’ll prove golden today.

Sylvain senses Felix’s approach and turns his head to the doorless threshold in time of Felix’s arrival heralded by the flickering light his lamp casts as well as his steps echoing against the stone floor. The displeasure on his face has been replaced by a neutrality set there so carefully that Sylvain fears he’ll shatter it with his actions in the near future. “I ate,” is how Felix announces himself. He walks up to Sylvain’s desk, eyes flicking over Sylvain’s lists.

That Felix can read should come as no surprise—they’re over his educated background already. That he won’t be able to decipher Sylvain’s shorthand curated over centuries is another matter entirely, and one Sylvain relishes in. A private smile tugs at the corners of his lips as Felix’s air of nonchalance makes way for a miasma of vexation.

Since there isn’t a chair waiting on the opposite side of Sylvain’s desk, Felix is relegated to standing. Sylvain watches him, chin resting on his interlaced fingers, until impatience takes over for Felix and he says, “You wanted me to see you. Here I am. Now what do you want?”

“Oh, I have a whole list prepared!” Sylvain sits up straight and gestures at said list.

Felix’s right eye twitches. “No.”

“Oh, not everything concerns you and we won’t do everything all at once.”

“I won my stay here.” Now Felix narrows his eyes. “I’m not going to pay for it.”

“Is it too much for me to ask to rid you of your lice? We’d mutually benefit from the arrangement.”

Something flashes in Felix’s eyes. He squares his jaw, and Sylvain is ready for another of his endless rejections and dismissals. The intangible, short-lived warmth of surprise spreads through him at Felix’s frown accompanied by the words, “Tell me about the lance in turn.”

“I’ll do my best to humor you.” Sylvain stands up to bow. Felix scowls at him as Sylvain passes him. “We’ll need to properly launder your clothes, too.”

“I’m not walking around naked.”

“Aw, a shame.” Sylvain turns his head to smile at Felix, who’s following him now, whose lamp casts Sylvain’s shadow ahead of him and into a shape resembling what humans usually perceive as monstrous. In the chamber housing the fireplace and the tub, Sylvain carries some water buckets to heat on the fire. The fact that several more buckets are filled than there were when Sylvain went to bed isn’t lost to him. Smirking privately, he says, “I’ll outfit you with some of my ill-fitting clothes—too small.”

Felix hangs his lamp onto a hook at the opposite end of the chamber from the fireplace. “I’m not going to strip for you.”

Sylvain turns around to fetch more buckets. “No problem. I have plenty of practice ripping off clothes.”

One of Felix’s hands moves to where his sword usually peeks out over his shoulders. Finding nothing, he goes for his poniard. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Too late.” Sylvain smiles and winks, making sure Felix sees before Sylvain turns his back to him to heat more water. The fine hairs on his back stand up and Sylvain turns around in time to catch Felix’s outstretched arm, the point of the poniard mere inches from his face. Sylvain increases the force of his grip and narrows his eyes at Felix. “We have a truce. Abide by it.”

Felix snarls at Sylvain, showing his teeth. Sylvain shows him two can play this game, lips pulling back from his teeth, his mask falling for his face to contort into something uncanny and inhuman, a low growl rising in his throat. While the stink of fear doesn’t set in, Felix’s heartbeat accelerates and, looking away, he relaxes his arm. Sylvain releases it from his grip as he smoothes his face back into something he himself can bear to look at in the mirror. Nevertheless does Felix keep his face turned away from him, eventually making himself useful by dumping several bucketloads of cold water in the tub.

Sylvain joins him soon after with the heated buckets, cloth wound around the handles to keep the heat that is simply too much at a manageable level. “I don’t have any ingredients to mix you something against lice,” he says, sounding human again. “But I can wash your hair and comb it. If it’s really bad, I’d like to cut it off.”

Felix finally turns around again to face Sylvain. “No. No cutting.”

“I’ll see what I can do without resorting to shears.” Sylvain nods at the tub. “Now get cozy.”

Sylvain doesn’t let himself lose a stare battle with Felix, a smile tugging at his lips when Felix grunts in resignation and turns away from him. “Don’t watch,” he says.

“I won’t.” Of course Sylvain lied.

Felix strips top to bottom, untying his hair, then letting his coat and shirt fall to the floor. Faint scars bloom all over his body, several from battle, but the shape and location of most of them reminds Sylvain of something else entirely. Leaving his trusted dagger behind, Felix climbs into the tub and groans.

Sylvain makes himself scarce looking for the narrowest-toothed comb he possesses. He finds Felix submerged in the water to his nose, eyes tracking every one of Sylvain’s movements. He holds up the comb and walks around the tub to stand behind Felix. “I’m going to wash your hair for you and comb it through. Expect me to crush lice whenever I see them.”

Felix grunts in reply but doesn’t move away from Sylvain’s reach. After placing the comb next to the stacked cakes of soap, Sylvain picks up the top-most bar. He takes utmost care in working it into Felix’s hair—after all, the little human seems to be rather attached to it. There’s an unmistakable groan of pleasure when Sylvain’s fingers massage Felix’s scalp, one that wants to make Sylvain comment he’d like to try out some other means of drawing these sounds out of Felix. Before he gets the chance to, Felix says, “Tell me about the lance.”

“There’s not much to say,” Sylvain lies, voice light and free of deceit. “It’s called the Lance of Ruin, no idea why. Probably because it brings ruin to everyone you stick this thing in. Dunk your head for ten seconds.”

Felix does so, no questions asked. Sylvain runs his fingers over his scalp and through his hair, watches the soap and the odd stray louse float away from Felix, washes his own hands off. He picks up the comb just in time for Felix to reemerge and demand, “More.”

“It’s a family heirloom,” Sylvain says, uncertain if Felix meant information or grooming. Well, parting Felix’s hair, Sylvain gets to the latter as well. “My family in their role as margravate did border control with it. Drove back people passing without permits, killed bandits trying to loot the—hard to believe—more prosperous villages on the Faerghus side of the border.” With utmost care, Sylvain runs the comb through individual strands of Felix’s hair, making a happy noise when he combs out a louse.

“Wow,” Felix says, so dry it’s hard to judge whether he’s serious, and if so, what it is he’s commenting. “After your earlier display, who’d have thought you’d be capable of sounding like a small girl presented a new dress?”

“I only found a louse.”

“Humble.”

Sylvain chuckles. So Felix can be more than a ruthless asshole. “It’s exciting.” By the time Sylvain finishes his first round of combing Felix’s hair, he’s picked out five of the parasites and two nits. “Dunk your head again and when you come up, I’m going to try and locate the rest as well as I can. No guarantees.”

Felix does as he’s bid. When he surfaces again, he asks, “How did your family come into possession of the lance?”

“Apparently the Goddess gifted them to select people, who then founded noble houses. How accurate the few records that survived from these times are, I don’t know. Seiros has always been fond of censoring and rewriting history as she sees fit.” Sylvain concentrates on tracking down Felix’s remaining lice, then works another helping of soap into his hair. Felix stays silent during all of it, doesn’t even flinch when Sylvain fights with yet another sticky nit.

“At this rate, I won’t need to wash my hair for the rest of my life.”

“Are you planning on dying tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Or leaving?”

“No.” Interesting.

“Then you’ll need to wash your hair every single day of your stay.” Sylvain pushes down on Felix’s head. The other man gets the hint and rinses his hair for the last time today. “Where’s your razor?”

“What for?” Felix’s hand sloshes up water in the delicate move of pointing at his face with all five fingers to make extra sure. “I am shaved.”

“Armpits? And pubes? They are extra warm and cozy. I bet body lice will love it there.”

Felix scowls. The hand disappears back in the water, and after a minute of futilely trying to stare Sylvain down, Felix does the sensible thing and gives up, turning his head away. “I have a knife for shaving in my belongings somewhe—”

“Did you ever nick yourself?”

“Probably.”

Good. Sylvain turns and leaves Felix to soak some more. Everything in Felix’s possessions that is made from cloth, Sylvain separates from the rest to rid from stray lice later. Next to everything he already saw prior, there are some everyday utilities there like the shaving blade that smells of blood traces, a tiny, half-blind hand mirror, tooth powder, and a messy brush that goes to the pile of ‘lice infestation (likely)’. Sylvain carries the knife back to Felix and says, “Don’t try anything funny or I’ll know immediately.”

Felix snatches it from Sylvain’s hand, apparently not giving a fuck he’s trying something funny right this instance. Unfortunately he doesn’t end up cutting his palm. Instead he narrows his eyes at Sylvain. “Go away. You don’t have to watch this.”

“I’m done humiliating you for the day anyway.” Sylvain grins as Felix etches permanent anger lines into his face. “I’ll go fetch you some clothes. We’re finished, although you may feel free to wash off your sweat once you’re done.” He does a pirouetting gesture with a finger.

“So you won’t cut off my hair?”

“It’d be a shame, the way it looks like the night sky. It’s only missing some silver for the moon and stars, but time will see to that if you let her.” She’s never going to for Sylvain. If asked while he was human, he’d have welcomed this particular anomaly of immortality with open arms. Now, he’s not so sure anymore. He’s always placed experience over age in his affairs, so there’s always been a certain allure to signs of advanced adulthood.

Sylvain kept most of the clothes he’s been outfitted with from the age of sixteen up, when his second and more severe growth spurt hit and still saw him short of his brother. Some of the older stuff should fit Felix to some degree. For all it’s worth, Sylvain doesn’t care about him patching up the moth holes in the most hideous ways he can come up with. The man likely hasn’t a single hair on him that knows how to value art… or he’s on a very misguided mission here.

Whistling, Sylvain returns with the clothes for Felix, fabric softer and more vibrant than anything the other man appears able to afford. Tufts of hair are floating on top of the water Felix has since stepped out of, one of the clothes for drying wrapped around the most vital areas of his body. He’s sitting in front of the fireplace and watches the flames lick upwards. “Don’t jump into the air again,” Sylvain says.

To Felix’s credit, it’s not a jump, though the jolt goes through him all the same. He cranes his neck around, some of the droplets from his hair flying into the fire and making it flicker and sizzle. “You bring the clothes? Good.” Sylvain crouches to hand them over, then sits down next to Felix to bask in some of the fire’s heat. “Move.”

“No?” Sylvain looks at Felix and laughs right in his face. “I’ll do you the honor of not watching you change. But you live with me here, you better get comfortable with the idea of seeing some other lances around.”

“I didn’t expect you to be the type to invite whores.” Felix turns his head to show Sylvain his displeasure. “Male ones at that.”

“I don’t. I’m charming enough to make people join me in bed willingly.” Felix’s side-long glance grows irritated and his heart beats faster in anger, his cheeks coloring in in a way that makes Sylvain’s mouth water. All this extra exercise and the smell of actual food is making him ravenous again. “For instance,” he goes on, “now that I deem you louse-free, you may act as my bed warmer.”

Instead of replying, Felix turns away from Sylvain who gets the hint and averts his eyes for all it’s worth. Cloth and fabric slide and shuffle, and then Felix sits down in the periphery of Sylvain’s field of vision as though to make it obvious he’s done. “I’m not a cheap whore.”

Sylvain leans back on his hands and lets his eyes travel all over Felix, starting at his bare feet, too pale for a healthy human, toes curling against the cold of the floor. Sylvain’s old breeches are too long on him and rolled up at his ankles. The long-sleeved shirt fares better on Felix, although the ends of the sleeves cover most of Felix’s hands. The blue fabric complements the color of his hair, although Sylvain wishes he had something to make Felix’s eyes shine in the dark like a wolf’s. Felix’s hair spills over his shoulders, the strands still wet and darkening the cloth as it soaks the water up, and his eyes are glaring daggers at Sylvain.

“Are you done undressing me with your eyes?” Felix asks, voice spitting venom.

Sylvain holds up both of his hands. “I was just admiring you. Especially the shirt, it suits you well.”

The blush creeps back into Felix’s cheeks. He gets up and announces, “My feet are cold. I’m going.”

“Sleep well,” Sylvain says to his rapidly retreating back. “I’m going to wash your clothes, bedding, everything.”

Felix raises a hand in acknowledgement. Good enough.

Sylvain enjoys the warmth of the fire for a few minutes (or hours, who can tell?) more before pushing himself to his feet and going about his self-appointed tasks: rinse the bathtub, pump up and heat water, go for a bath himself, heat up more water until the tub is hot enough to scald Sylvain’s hands, then dump everything Felix owns in there with a generous helping of soap, and hope his things won’t end up shrunken. When he crawls into bed himself, the first licks of the sunrise already lighting up his underground chambers, Sylvain’s hands are scrubbed raw and hurt. They’ll mend during the day. He slips under his covers and cocoons himself up, his back resting against Felix’s on the other side of the mattress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The definition is taken from Merriam-Webster!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for over 100 kudos and over 50 subscriptions <3 I'm so happy to see you enjoy reading this as much as I do writing!

“Just in case,” Sylvain says, leaning against the doorless threshold into the all-purpose chamber housing the fireplace and tub as well as Felix, spooked again by Sylvain and holding a hand to his thrumming heart as he turns around with displeasure written into every crease of his frown, “I want to stock up on lice killer ingredients. Or alternately, a salve.”

“Why?” Felix’s mouth quirks upwards into a smirk. He must be unaware of how good he looks all smug, eyes lighting up to an almost amber hue with mischief, the awful words going straight through Sylvain’s chest. “Your hands not as skilled as you’d like them to be?”

“I’d be humbled to give you a taste.” Sylvain licks his lips. He’d like one, too.

“Forget about it.” Sylvain keeps smiling at Felix as though he hasn’t heard him. Felix averts his eyes. “Had a lot of run-ins with lice already?” he asks, the smirk still playing on his lips.

“Only when I spend too much time with humans. Oh, and back when I used to be human myself, of course.” To Felix’s grunt, Sylvain adds, “My blood is different from yours. Lice don’t like it.”

“How is it different?”

“If yours can serve as a metaphor for life—it keeps you alive, it heals you, it sustains me and other leeches—then mine would be death.” Sylvain watches Felix’s back, how it stiffens at his words and creases the silken robes Sylvain lent Felix.

“And how do you know it is?”

Sylvain’s smile hardens on his face, and he allows himself a second to smooth out his wrinkles into a charming expression Felix would only be able to see if he had eyes at the back of his head. “Folly. Madness.”

Now Felix turns around, the frown lines etched into his face, his upper lip pulling back from his teeth. “Explain.”

“I will when you come to town with me.” It’s not a question.

“Then let’s go.” As he thought, it’s not. Felix moves past Sylvain into the armory to grab his weapons. Sylvain takes more time to seek out coats for both of them and makes a quick detour for the list he wrote the day prior as well as a pouch holding some coin before meeting Felix stepping from one foot to the other in front of the heavy oaken door.

* * *

Time is Sylvain’s eternal enemy. He underestimated how long two hours’ walk are for Felix walks at a human pace, his short legs doing their best to catapult him forward in long strides and, Sylvain grimaces, falling short.

There’s an old, wooden barn back at the stronghold, long since fallen prey to wind and weather. You’d have to know where the roof used to be, the wood having rotted mostly away and turned into feeding ground for moss and mushrooms. The barn has fallen in on itself a few years after Sylvain had sold the last of the cows, chickens, sheep, and pigs. The thought of feeding on their blood when they could sustain a family and make them breed more tasty humans grew unappealing fast. There used to be dogs hanging around for a while longer, picking clean the bones of the deer and birds Sylvain had hunted together with them and discarded after drinking his fill, but he eventually found them to be more hassle than useful company.

The only animals he had been sad to see go were the horses. However, they spook too easily, shy away from him, shift around on their legs ready to give Sylvain a good kick in the head. And anyway, Sylvain is about as fast on foot as he used to be astride a horse back when he was human. Although, if he still had at least one single horse—disregarding how unlikely this would be anyway after centuries of him lacking the need for one as well as the proper means of supporting it—if he had _one_ horse, then Felix would be faster and they’d make better time. The hope they’ll still find a store tended to grows dimmer with every excruciating short step they take.

“We’re not going to make it,” Sylvain says into the silence of Felix’s even breathing.

“What do you mean?” Felix bites back. He hasn’t repeated his former question yet, and Sylvain has no qualms about letting him flop like a fish on a hook.

“You may be falling out of the habit, but most humans keep to the sun. She goes up, they get up too, she goes down, and they go to bed.”

Felix scowls. “And you care about breaking in and taking what you want?”

“I’d reflect badly onto you.” Sylvain takes a chance and leans towards Felix to sling an arm around his shoulder. While the little human stiffens under him, he neither pulls away nor sticks a blade into Sylvain.

“Ha ha.” Felix’s voice drips with sarcasm and venom in equal parts.

“See, the truth is that entering someone else’s building without prior invitation… hurts.” Sylvain makes a face. “My head throbs and my vision goes red and hazy. My joints make me feel all the years I’ve accumulated.”

This time Felix’s shoulders rise and fall in real laughter. Although Sylvain knows it’s meant to infuriate him, it’s a contagious sound instead. “First light and now _this_? Thresholds?” His teeth gleam in his lamp’s light. “This is the stupidest, most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. The Goddess’s adversaries sure placed some phenomenal weaknesses on you Immortals.”

“Smart when you think about it like this.” No need for Sylvain to mention he differs from the Immortals Felix has been in touch with so far, provided he realized what they were. And even if he didn’t, enough tales abound. “We fall prey to common circumstances. Whoever would think about hurting us like this?” He lets go of Felix to turn his head and smile at him in a way Felix has a chance of seeing, presuming he wants to.

He glances over out of the corner of his eyes. “I’m intrigued nevertheless. How does this threshold weakness work, exactly?”

“You mean, under which circumstances do I feel uncomfortable in a building?”

“Yes. How do you know if there’s an owner? How is it defined?”

“It’s not that clear-cut.” Sylvain laces his fingers behind his head. “From my experimentation and experiences, I’m pretty sure it’s got something to do with the feeling of, hm, let’s say belonging? If you go and say, ‘This is my place. I live here,’ or if you think it at the very least, if you believe it in your heart, then it’s going to have some effect on me. And the stronger the feeling, the stronger my aversion.”

“Interesting.” Is it really? “Does this mean I can evict you from your home if my feeling of living there rightfully is strong enough?”

Ah, just as he’d thought. Felix is brighter at times than Sylvain gives him credit for. Then again, he’s a creature of the day—of course he shines. “In theory, yes.” Or if he renounced an invitation, but Felix doesn’t need to know specifics. “But don’t think you can overpower me.”

Although he sees it coming quite literally, Sylvain doesn’t dodge the elbow Felix hits him in the ribs with. Sylvain shouldn’t keep flirting with physical abuse like this—hard to fathom he isn’t a fan at this point, yet it doesn’t appear as if his brother managed to quell his thirst for masochism completely. “I hope it hurts,” Felix says, not even bothering to check Sylvain’s expression for the obvious answer.

“It does. Satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“Since you know your letters, you should also know that the F in Felix is for ‘fucker’.” Sylvain tilts his head towards Felix, angled slightly down, and displays his teeth.

“And the S in Sylvain for ‘slut’?” Sylvain snorts at this, Felix falling into it with a chuckle of his own.

“Sylvain the Slut… It does have a certain ring to it.”

“If you’d have called yourself that instead of Margrave Gautier, maybe people would still remember you.”

Sylvain huffs. “You’re walking on thin ice here, little man.”

“So are you.”

There’s a moment of silence only broken by Felix’s footsteps, his breathing, a small animal shuffling in the long blades of grass to their left, the call of an otherwise silent owl traversing the sky. And then Felix chuckles again and Sylvain breaks out in laughter, gulping in air like a choking man to prepare his lungs for what’s coming. It’s a shame Felix stays reserved even when he’s having fun, as what Sylvain can hear coming out of him sounds quite lovely. And then there’s the fact of his heart speeding up, of his blood sloshing through his veins, a fact that makes Sylvain show his thirst by licking his lips.

A third source of light—next to the moon and Felix’s lamp—joins them from the people still milling around in their homes, hundreds of candles illuminating countless windows in the dark. “Oh,” Sylvain breathes.

“What?”

“My sense of time is screwed up. I thought we’d take longer to get here.”

“What about your orientational skills? No good either?”

“It’s been a while.” And who can tell how long exactly? Two years? Five? Ten?

Felix turns his head and arches an eyebrow. “Honestly? So far you haven’t been an impressive Immortal.”

“You wound me again.”

“Tch. No wonder you usually swagger around in that armor of yours, what with such a soft shell you have.”

“I only put it on when I fear I may get stabbed.” Sylvain tilts his head again. “And we’re on a truce, a word incidentally related to _trust_.”

“So what would happen if I decided to stab you now?”

“And go through with it?”

“Yes.”

“For the sake of the argument, I’d kill you.” From the corner of an eye, Sylvain sees Felix nod. “It’d be a shame if it came to that, though.”

Felix smirks. “Growing attached?”

“Your personality is so charming I find myself unable to resist.” If they weren’t walking, Sylvain would swoon. He gets Felix to snort and shake his head either way. “No, but really, Felix. Can you imagine what it’s like to exist for such a long time? The few friends I make die after a while, and then I’m all alone again.”

“If you expect me to feel pity or even compassion, you’re on the wrong path.”

Sylvain sighs and inclines his head. “Don’t be so hard on me all the time.”

“Reminder that you intended to kill me until I told you where to find more people.”

“And look at you: Still hale and healthy. Cheeks flushed deliciously—” Felix does his cute little human growl. Yes, this is it. Heartbeat accelerating, pumping his wonderful blood everywhere. “Please tell me whenever you change your mind and let me have a taste.”

“I won’t.” Felix doesn’t specify whether he means that he won’t tell or that he won’t change his mind. Well, all right for now.

Behind the bend they’re turning right now, the village emerges in all its splendor: Small timber-framed houses and a bigger brick church make up most of the buildings. Several fields for growing plants in this harsh climate line the village borders. Sylvain and Felix pass through by a path carved between two of those fields. “You don’t happen to know where to find the village apothecary, do you?”

“No.”

“Let’s split up and ask around then.”

“Remind me why I came with you again.”

“You wanted to know about my blood, and then didn’t have the balls to bring the topic up again.” This time, Sylvain dodges the elbow jab. He makes sure Felix’s lamp shines on his teeth so the little man can appreciate all their sharp points. “But I’ll do you the favor and talk about it on our way back, once I purchased everything I wanted.”

“I don’t like the way you keep postponing it.”

“Then grow a pair.” Sylvain vanishes into the shadows before Felix can try out what it’s like to stab Sylvain without his armor protecting him.

* * *

Humans really are like sheep: Get one to trust you and they won’t question anything twice.

To make a long story short, Sylvain was the one who ended up knocking on the right door, was asked to step in after he explained ‘his’ lice problem, and was allowed to leave with a freshly prepared salve against lice and other itches for the steep price of two of his coins. He should find someone to trade them in already—no one wants to see the profile of King Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd stamped onto the coins, a man dead for so long that he lived in another era (and is likely a footnote in the fallen kingdom to Sylvain’s forgotten history). It makes people suspicious of the funny money, and they need to weigh it against the cheap-looking coin in circulation nowadays. Eventually, the apothecary accepted his coins and Sylvain was on his way, his nose twitching to home in on Felix’s scent.

Felix the Fucker purchased some groceries for himself and then idled the time away whetting his dagger by lamplight, his ass pressing into the peculiar shapes of the boulder he sat down on for this venture. Sylvain bets he didn’t even try to ask for an apothecary.

He holds up the phial with the salve in it and modulates his voice for all cheer, zero irritation. “Look what I got!”

Felix raises his head, this time without the signs of being startled he usually displays. Is he getting used to Sylvain’s presence? All the better. “I told you we weren’t too late.”

“You humans turn out to be little night owls after all.” Sylvain sighs, the smile still prominent on his face. “How times change.”

“What do you mean?”

“In times of war and famine, people usually don’t display this amount of hospitality. Let’s hope the Church doesn’t get megalomaniacal.” Although he watches Felix’s reaction closely, the man keeps his usual expression of kindled displeasure in place.

During the conversation Felix packed his stuff and now stands up, brushing dust off his ass. “Since when are you interested in politics?”

“In case you forgot already, I’m still a margrave.”

“In case _you_ forgot already, the kingdom is dead. Your title doesn’t mean anything.” Felix falls into step next to Sylvain. “And what good does it you when no one remembers anymore anyway?” Sylvain pushes out his bottom lip. “Don’t fucking pout at me.” Felix shoves him in the side.

Sylvain makes a show of stumbling and catching himself. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”

“I have one more argument.”

“Go in for the kill then, little Felix.” This earns him a snarl and Felix a flash of teeth.

“If I’m not mistaken, I’m like a herald for you. Packed with all the news.” Felix tilts his head in Sylvain’s direction. “Which means you have no fucking clue what’s going on in the world right now.”

“To be honest, it’s not like it concerns me overmuch anymore.”

Felix sighs raggedly, all the disdain he must feel on display. “Now that we figured out you’re a lousy liar, let me ask again why the fuck it should interest you if the Church wants to conquer the world or no?”

“For starters, I don’t think they’d be too pleased finding out about my continued existence.” Sylvain smiles. “Seiros has never been fond of rival Immortals who don’t align themselves with her, and I doubt that’s changed in the meantime.”

“Aha.”

“Moreover, I feed on blood. Mass destruction and death works contrary to my diet.”

Felix snorts. “You’re the last person I’d have attributed an interest in keeping people alive with.”

“See? I’m an interesting specimen.” Felix only grunts in reply. “And lastly, being able to go to town and buy things is convenient. If people shut themselves in or die, I have to work and build and mix and mend everything myself.”

“Poor you. When you have all the time you could possibly ever need.”

Sylvain chuckles. “This is true. I guess I never lost the all-too human quality of liking to laze around.”

“Hmph.”

“I also never lost another human quality.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“I’ll tell you anyway: I’m a very social person.”

Felix laughs out loud, mirthless and ruthless. “The gods really must hate you in particular to have made you an Immortal.”

“Yeah… everyone dies, I keep on living, all alone, yadda yadda yadda.” Sylvain links his fingers behind his head, the phial peeking out between them. They’ve been over this already. “Don’t be so gloomy for me, Felix. Help a guy out instead.”

“Help you out?”

“I’ll spell it out for you again: I like you.” Sylvain smiles and turns his face Felix’s way. If he wants to, he can assure himself of the fact spelled out just as plainly on Sylvain’s features. “I like having you around. And I’d like to strike another deal with you.”

“This can only end badly,” Felix mutters.

Sylvain laughs. “There’s nothing for you to lose here! I’m aiming for a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Will you force it on me or do I get a choice?”

“You’re a free man, Felix. You could pack up and go wherever it is your feet take you, ooor you can come back with me.” Sylvain’s eyes flit over, and still Felix remains unreadable.

“Then propose.”

“Stay for a while longer.”

“Didn’t you give me an ultimatum?”

Sylvain smiles, the pointed tips of his fangs pressing against his bottom lip. “Yes, but we both know you’re not bothered by it. We could go hunting together and push back the date indefinitely.” His tongue flicks out to lick his lips. “Although I wouldn’t be disinclined if you offered me a taste.”

“No.”

“No to—”

“I’m not going to let you bite me.”

“We could also use knives. I don’t want you to wind up with more ugly scars.” Sylvain raises an eyebrow at Felix that doesn’t get a reaction out of him. Aw, c’mon! “At least my bites haven’t caused any smelling swellings so far. Perhaps my saliva has medicinal properties?”

Felix’s forehead furrows into creases as his brows draw together. “So you want me to stay.”

“Yes. For as long as you want. Explore the stronghold to your heart’s content. I’ll even take out everyone who so much thinks about bothering you.” Sylvain grins. He imagines it to look like the crescent moon up in the sky, only slanted sideways. Bright in the dark and a mysterious kind of inviting. “You may sleep in my bed, share my hearth for what it’s worth, and have the freedom to leave any time you finished the mission you’re on.”

Felix tenses next to Sylvain for less than a heartbeat. Interesting. “How very generous of you. And you’re sure there’s no… blood price to pay?”

Sylvain laughs. What a wonderful way to put this! “It would be a voluntary donation, and I’d patch you up and nurse you back to health until you’re fit to win another duel against me.”

“Would there be more duels?”

“If you need them to stay in form, or if the desire to run me through overwhelms you, anytime.”

“And the hunting you mentioned—was that just hypothetical?”

Sylvain grins again. He’s starting to get a sense of what Felix likes and how to wrap him around his finger, finally. “No. I do enjoy it, although you’ll find I fit the role of the bloodhound better than the one of the human hunter.”

“Predator.”

“Mhm, that’s me.”

“Since I doubt you only want me to stay to assuage your loneliness, enlighten me what’s in it for you.”

Oh, so many wonderful things. A teacher who fills out Sylvain’s blank spots of ignorance when it comes to recent history, the Church’s newest set of laws, Fódlan politics, and of course the sword. A regenerating snack that allows Sylvain to nibble at him and lick his wounds clean, again and again and again. A fountain of soft gasps and gentle moans Felix would never admit to making, but ones that surely can be tickled out of him. A remedy for his languishing loins. Yes, a bedwarmer who may melt some more and actively participate in both the ‘bed’ and the ‘warmer’ parts.

Stowing his ever dirtier fantasies away for another time hopefully not too far off, Sylvain hums as if mulling this over. As long as he can get Felix to divulge his secret—why he’s here, if there’s really a mission he’s on, and if yes, if it’s Church-sanctioned (now that would be unpleasant)—as long as he manages this, he’ll consider everything else the cherry on top. Or preferably something else that is red and much, much more delicious.

“You’ll go to town for me, in daylight. You’ll guard me during my more vulnerable hours. Perhaps you’ll even handle the odd correspondence, in time,” Sylvain says.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds too easy,” Felix says.

“Then stay suspicious. I’m abiding by our truce.” Sylvain tilts his head, another smile forming on his lips. “Since you’re able to read, we can also draft a contract.”

“That won’t be necessary. You fuck up, you’re dead.”

“Good luck.” Felix half-turns his head to Sylvain and smirks. Sylvain smirks back. There’s a second, two, three of them passing before they lose their grips at the same time. Now if only they were always this harmonious.

A few minutes of silence follow, only broken up by a swarm of bats passing overhead, which Sylvain points out much to Felix’s amusement (well, a man is allowed to hope, isn’t he?), Felix asks, “Now why is your blood death?”

Aw. He really grew himself some balls. “Well, when I drink yours—”

“If.”

“ _If_ I drink yours, it’ll make me live longer. If you drink mine, you drop dead.”

“And you found this out through folly and madness.”

“For starters, other leeches like your fancy lice are going to die if they get a taste of me.”

“Then why are you so obsessed with ridding me of them?”

Sylvain smiles. “One, I’m a very clean person and I prefer people staying with me to adapt to this by becoming very clean themselves. Two, if you’re trying to sell me that you liked having lice, that you’re missing the perpetual itching and the thought of something crawling all over your body at all times,” Sylvain shudders, “then it’s going to be me you has to teach you how to tell more convincing lies.”

For a long time, Felix doesn’t say anything at all. “I see,” is what he eventually settles on. “Speaking of bad habits, now tell me about your madness.”

A grin pulls Sylvain’s lips back from his teeth. Felix loves dancing on the knife’s tip. “As you know, I have had human lovers before.”

“Yes.”

Heh. Felix doesn’t miss a beat, although Sylvain doubts he’s warmed up to the idea of becoming one of them as well just yet. “And as you’ve correctly surmised, immortality comes with the drawback that you see people you’re attached to grow old and weak, wither away, die.”

“Yes.”

Sylvain shoots Felix a sidelong glance. “I’ve tried turning one, once, and it went wrong horribly.”

“Turning someone else into an Immortal? That’s impossible.”

“I found that out the hard way.” Sylvain sighs. “It was gory, and the screams—” Running a hand through his hair, Sylvain grimaces. “I won’t subject anyone to this amount of suffering ever again.”

“Did you have the,” Felix clears his throat, “heart to give them a merciful end?”

“No. In hindsight I wish I did.” The hand is back in his hair and pulling at it now. “I thought it would be all right in the end, you know? That it’s part of the process. So after the first one, I let everyone go, as much as it hurt.”

“Poor you.” Felix’s voice lacks any inflection.

“Console me some, will you?”

“No.”

Another sigh heaves itself through Sylvain’s chest. Felix probably doesn’t like mopey and clingy. There’s only so much Sylvain can do to upkeep his cheerful disposition, however, and the images in his head are making it hard to focus on positivity. He presses his tongue against his teeth, wriggles it around the edges a bit until he draws blood and washes his mouth with something good. It doesn’t alleviate the pain, but Sylvain keeps telling himself it helps a tiny bit, and Felix’s blood would be comforting him better, yes, way, way better.

He looks over. Felix’s profile is lined sharply by the lamp he carries on the side turned away from Sylvain. The fire makes his eye flicker in orange and yellow tones. Even his hair adopts the fiery shades thrown over. The arch of his brow is as strong as the angles of his face. Knowing him, Felix likely has no idea of how beautiful he is.

* * *

Felix has been in bed for quite a while when Sylvain joins him in the morning hours. Today there’s no reluctance anymore in Sylvain as he lines his body up with Felix’s, pressing his face into the other man’s hair, his chest against his back, his crotch against his ass. It’s warm under the covers, and giving Felix the benefit of the doubt—he surely won’t stick his blade in Sylvain after they promised to protect each other—Sylvain falls asleep easily.

**Author's Note:**

> You like what you saw? Please feel free to leave kudos and fill out the comment box <3


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